And the music of the spheres.

Prayer for Submission.

How often, Lord, when 'tis Thy will
    To use the chastening rod,
My soul, possessed of passions ill,
    Rebels against its God!
Denies that Justice reigns in heaven,
    Doth His decrees pervade;
And loathes the blessings He hath given,
    The creatures He hath made!

Do thou the spirit me instil
    Of sweet submission, Lord,
And teach me to Thy sovereign will
    In meekness to accord;
Like Him who felt affliction's fire,
    But never did repine;
And bore the cross at Thy desire,
    When harder far than mine.

Enough, it is my King's command!
    What more do I require?
Yet what is from a father's hand
    Can but to good conspire.
And all Thy workings are inwove
    In Thine eternal plan,
Which wills the welfare in Thy love,
    And works the weal of man.

Sonnet to ———.

Journeying through a desert, waste and drear,
    Exhausted and disheartened by his way,
    So hard and parched, unchanged from day to day,
Saw the lone traveller an oasis near,
In which a tender flower did appear,
    Endued with beauty and with fragrance sweet,
    Known not to scorching winds nor blighting heat;
And gazing on it, it imparted cheer.
The traveller trod the weary sands of Time,
    Entering thy home delightful peace he found;
Radiant with youthful beauty half divine,
    On him thine angel face with sunbeams crowned
Smiled, and that artless, beaming smile of thine
    Sped to his soul that with new life did bound.

The Song of the Summer Cloud.

I am arrayed in light and shade,
    A free-born spirit of air;
A fanciful theme like a twilight dream,
    Or a maiden young and fair.

And now I float like a phantom boat
    With a vague and varying hue,
Fading from sight in the beams of light
    On an ocean clear and blue.

And now I am wooed by the wind so rude,
    As he rushes in fury past,
Who his bride doth crown with a darkening frown
    As I ride in the car of the blast.

And down I pour 'mid the thunder's roar
    While the lightnings gleam and glare,
Till the floods resound as they burst their bound
    And laugh at what man can dare.

And now he is flown and has left me alone
    To brood in bereavement and woe,
And I hang like a pall while the rain-drops fall
    Like tear-drops steady and slow.

But again he returns when my gloom he discerns,
    And subdues his dark spirit of storms;
And the shower descends while the rainbow blends
    And the sunshine brightens and warms.

Montreal.

(Written in Winter.)

All clad in rich hiemal robes
    By blasts of Boreas plied,
The sovereign City of the North
    Sits in majestic pride;
Beside St. Lawrence' noble stream,
    Hard by his hidden tide,
She sits, and rears her head aloft
    Upon Mount Royal's side.

A crown she wears of richest gems,
    Of purest crystal bright,
That sparkle like a maiden's eyes
    Which dazzle with delight;
Not gems that glitter best beneath
    The courtly lamps by night;
But those whose brilliancy appears
    By morning's purer light.

Her sceptre is not mineral
    Up-gathered from the dust,
Nor gold, nor silver, long profaned
    By man's accursèd lust,
Nor substance base enough to feel
    The vitiating rust,
But is a crystalled branch of oak
    Just riven by the gust.

"I sit a queen," she proudly says,
    "From the Atlantic Main
To where the Rockies to the sky
    Their shaggy summits strain,
From where St. Lawrence speeds along
    The ocean wave to gain
To where in darkness sleeps the heaven,
    Unwaked by Phoebus' wain."

The Fever Burns from Morn till Eve.

NOTE.—The following is an attempt to render in verse the passionate words of a young officer in the Indian service, who had fallen a prey to the ravages of the fever.

The fever burns from morn till eve;
    I toss upon my bed;
And none but heavy hands relieve
    My aching, heated head.

Harsh voices of hard-hearted men
    Attempt to sympathize;
But sympathy is worthless when
    Love gives it not its rise.

Could thy soft hand but soothe my brain,
    Thy voice to mine reply,
'Twere rapture then to toss in pain,
    'Twere rapture e'en—to die!

Oh! the Sickening Sensation!

    Oh! the sickening sensation!—
    Oh! the burning agitation
            In my soul!
    Oh! the awful desolation
            Of my soul!
    And my breast is sore with sighing.
    Comfort to myself denying—
Comfort and relief denying to my soul distrest and sore;
    While that worst of all diseases
    With a pain that naught appeases
            Ever burns—
    While a pain that grimly pleases
            Alway burns,
    Kindled by thy bright eye's beaming,
    By thy brilliant, blue eye's beaming,
When I saw thee, saw and loved thee on that fatal eve of yore;
    And anon it has been living,
    And a blissful sadness giving
            While with thee,—
    Mingled bliss and sadness giving
            While with thee;
    But, ah! now its woful waging,
    Laying waste with cruel raging
This my heart, as with a vulture gnawing at its very core!
    Would kind angels waft me to thee!—
    Waft me for one moment to thee!
    Let me gaze one moment on thee!—
    But one blissful moment on thee!—
Satisfy this languid longing for the one whom I adore!
Oh! to quench this lethal longing for the one whom I adore!

The Noble Woman.

A woman on an empire's throne
    Has sat in queenly pride,
And swayed the sceptre of her power
    O'er land and ocean wide:
A crown of gold adorned the head
    That held a nation's fate,
And courtly knights and princely peers
    Did on her bidding wait.

A woman too in ancient days
    Has borne the warrior's brand,
And by heroic deed performed
    Has saved her native land.
She too has sung inspiring songs,
    And told entrancing tales;
Has softened and has swayed the mind
    Where bolder genius fails.

But nobler far than thronèd queen,
    Or heroine of fame,
Or she who by her potent pen
    Has won illustrious name,
Is she who seeks the needy out,
    Nor scorns the wretched's door,
But, with compassion Christlike, loves
    To help the humble poor.