VERSES

OF

FEELING AND FANCY

BY

Wm. M. MacKeracher

MONTREAL:
W. DRYSDALE & CO.,
PUBLISHERS AND BOOKSELLERS.

Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada in the year of Our Lord one thousand eight hundred and ninety by Wm. Drysdale & Co., in the office of the Minister of Agriculture.

DEDICATED

TO

MY FATHER.

Motive

Worthless, the man who works—he knows not why,
    Whom naught inspires to his puny plan,
Who seeming plays his part instinctively:
    Soulless, and falsely designated "man."

Wicked, who works from wish of worldly gain,—
    His soul surrendered to th'accursèd lust
Of pleasure partial, briefly to remain,
    Of treasure liable to moth and rust.

Foolish and vain is he whose motive—fame,
    Ruled by desire of honor and renown;
And fondly courting Fortune's fickle Dame,—
    To-day she smiles, to-morrow she will frown.

But virtuous, noble, prompted from above,
    Preluding now the perfect life again,
Is he, whose only inspiration, love,
    Love to his God and to his fellow-men.

For love is naught but God's own nature, given,
    In partial measure, down to man to come;
The sole delight of earth, the key to heaven;
    Of all the virtues, centre, source, and sum.

The Old Year.

The old year is dying,
Its last hour is hieing
    Over the verge;
The night winds are plying,
And are mournfully sighing
    Its funeral dirge.

And now, in its even,
While its spirit is riven
    Through the bright zone,
Beyond the heaven
To whence it was given—
    To the unknown.

Its sadness in ending
Like a cloud is descending
    Over my soul,
And the thoughts that are pending
With the low winds are blending,
    Helping their dole.

A year of existence
Has passed to the distance
    Ne'er to return:
To the right was resistance,
From duty desistance,
    Nor would I learn.

But duty neglected
And virtue rejected
    We may amend;
Then why be dejected?—
So sorely affected?
    Whence does it tend?

Is it that pleasure
In liberal measure
    I have not known?
Ah! rapturous pleasure
In memory I treasure,
    But—it is flown.

Opportunity wasted,
Though far we have passed it,
    We may retrieve;
But beakers once tasted
Of bliss while they lasted
    Bitterness leave.

A Summer Evening Scene in Chateauguay

WRITTEN IN MONTREAL.

Often, when the sun is sinking
    O'er the mountain's glowing crest,
When the earth and heaven are linking
    In that bond of peaceful rest;
Then, the weary city spurning,
    On this grand repose I gaze,
And my mind, in fancy turning,
    Dwells on scenes of childhood's days.

And I float upon the river
    At the selfsame time of day,
When the sparkling waters quiver
    'Neath the slanting evening ray.
Day's harsh memories forsaking
    With its jarring and its jest,
For the soul is but awaking
    As the day is lulled to rest.

Glimpse of even's glory getting
    As the summer sun serene,
In his softened splendour setting,
    Gilds the spires of Ste. Martine;
Glimmers through the silent bushes,
    Glances on the birchen stems;
Casts perchance his fitful blushes
    On the paddle, dripping gems.

And the hue of gold is deeper
    On the cornfields by the stream;
And the sickle of the reaper
    Flashes brightly in his beam.
And the fruits, of late commencing
    To indue their glowing tint,
Richest beauty are enhancing
    As they catch his gentle glint.

Now he greets the gaudy dresses
    Of the lightsome Gallic maids,
Rivals through their raven tresses
    Eyes of jet beneath their braids
As the peasant party gathers
    Gaily for the sportive dance,
As of old have done their fathers
    In the sunny vales of France.

But the night is falling thicker,
    And the twilight soon will cease,
So I paddle on the quicker
    Past where Beauty reigns with Peace;
Where the little brooks deliver
    Water laughing in its glee,
Or the murky English River
    Mingles with the Chateauguay.

Lines written on a Sabbath Morning.

The snow lies pure and peaceful on the ground,
    Serenely smiles the azure sky o'erhead:
The Sabbath spirit dwells on all around,
    And weekly toils and discords all are fled.

But, ah! my soul is filled with worldly thought,
    My God, 'tis filled with thoughts of self and sin:
With seeming care and trouble it is fraught,
    And peaceless discontentment reigns within.

Send down from heaven the Spirit of Thy love,
    Its soothing influence in my soul instil;
Uplift my worldly thoughts to things above,
    Subserve my wishes to Thy better will.

Reflections on a tree in Autumn.

The tree, with its leaves in luxuriance shading
    My path in the tune-yielding time of the year,
Now sighs in its dirge, while its foliage, fading,
    Descends to its sepulchre withered and sere.

And yet I regard it with feelings the fonder,
    With feelings of mingled compassion and pain,
As in pity I gaze on its branches, and ponder
    Of once fragrant beauty what fragments remain.

For that barren tree with adornment so fleeting,
    That blows in the autumn wind bleak and forlorn,
Bespeaks the sad state of a heart that is beating,
    Bereft of the pleasures that once it has borne.

A Parting.

Has the last farewell been spoken?
Have I ta'en the parting token
    From thy lips so sweet?
Has their last soft word been spoken
    Till again we meet?

Why is not thy hand extended?
Is my maiden queen offended?
    Or does she forget?
No! my queen is not offended,
    She is kindly yet.

For her eye is softly beaming,
And with tenderness is teeming,
    Gentle as the dove's:
With a holy light is beaming—
    Dare I call it love's?

But the time is fast advancing;
From the heaven of its glancing
    I must rend my heart:
Treacherous Time is fast advancing,
    And I must depart.

Ah! the pain the parting brings me!
As a serpent's fang it stings me,
    Leaves me almost dead:
Ah! the faintness that it brings me
    With