He knows she will be faithful to the end,
        For ever beautiful, for ever young.

A DAY REDEEMED.

I rose, and idly sauntered to the pane,
    And on the March-bleak mountain bent my look;
    And standing there a sad review I took
Of what the day had brought me. What the gain
To Wisdom's store? What holds had Knowledge ta'en?
    I mused upon the lightly-handled book,
    The erring thought, and felt a stern rebuke:
"Alas, alas! the day hath been in vain!"

But as I gazed upon the upper blue,
    With many a twining jasper ridge up-ploughed,
Sudden, up-soaring, swung upon my view
    A molten, rolling, sunset-laden cloud:
My spirit stood, and caught its glorious hue—
    "Not lost the day!" it, leaping, cried aloud.

OUTREMONT.

Far stretched the landscape, fair, without a flaw,
    Down to one silver sheet, some stream or cloud,
    Through glamorous mists. Midway, an engine ploughed
Across the scene. In meditative awe
I stood and gazed, absorbed in what I saw,
    Till sweet-breathed Evening came, the pensive-browed,
    And creeping from the city, spread her shroud
Over the sunlit slopes of Outremont.

Soon the mild Indian summer will be past,
    November's mists soon flee December's snows;
The trees may perish, and the winter's blast
    Wreck the tall windmills; these weak eyes may close;
But ever will that scene continue fast
    Fixed in my soul, where richer still it grows.

THE NEW OLD STORY.

Hard by an ancient mansion stood an oak;
    For centuries, 'twas said, it had been there:
The old towers crumbled 'neath decay's slow stroke,
    While, hall by hall, upgrew a palace fair;
Lives and momentous eras waxed and waned,
    Old barons died, and barons young and gay
Ruled in their stead, and still the oak remained,
    And each new spring seemed older not a day.

The vesture of the spirit of mankind,—
    Forms and beliefs, like meteors, rise and set;
The spirit too doth change; but o'er the mind
    This old Evangel holds young lordship yet;
And here among Canadian snows we bring
Each Christmastide our tribute to the King.

RECREATION.

Give me a cottage embower'd in trees,
    Far from the press and the din of the town;
There let me loiter and live at my ease,
    Happier far than the King with his crown.

There let the music that's sweeter than words
    Waken my soul's inarticulate song,
Murmur of zephyrs and warbling of birds,
    Babble of waters that hurry along.

Under the shade of the maple and beech
    Let me in tranquil contentment recline,
Learning what nature and solitude teach,
    Charming philosophy, human, divine;

Finding how trivial the myriad things
    Life is concern'd with, to seek or to shun;
Seeing the sources whence blessedness springs,
    Gathering strength for the work to be done.

PAESTUM.

Paestum, your temples and your streets
    Have been restored to view;
Your fadeless Grecian beauty greets
    The eyes of men anew.

But where are all your roses now—
    Those wonderful delights
That made such garlands for the brow
    Of your fair Sybarites?

They in your time were more renown'd,
    And dearer to your heart,
Than these fine works which mark the bound
    And highest reach of art.

We'd see you as you look'd of old;
    Though column, arch and wall
Were worth a kingdom to behold,
    One rose would shame them all.

RONDEAU: AN APRIL DAY.

An April day, when skies are blue,
And earth rejoices to renew
    Her vernal youth by lawn and lea,
    And sap mounts upward in the tree,
And ruddy buds come bursting through;

When violets of tender hue
And trilliums keep the morning dew
    Through all the sweet forenoon—give me
                        An April day;

When surly Winter's roystering crew
Have said the last of their adieux,
    And left the fettered river free,
    And buoyant hope and ecstasy
Of life awake, my wants are few—
                        An April day.

AUTUMN.

The Year, an aged holy priest,
    In gorgeous vestments clad,
Now celebrates the solemn feast
    Of Autumn, sweet and sad.

The Sun, a contrite thurifer
    After his garish days,
Through lessening arch, a wavy blur,
    His burnish'd censer sways.

The Earth,—an altar all afire
    Her hecatombs to claim,
Shoots upward many a golden spire
    And crimson tongue of flame.

Like Jethro's shepherd, when he turn'd
    In Midian's land to view
The bush that unconsuming burn'd,
    I pause—and worship, too.

MY TWO BOYS.

To some the heavenly Father good
    Has given raiment rich and fine,
And tables spread with dainty food,
    And jewels rare that brightly shine.

To some He's given gold that buys
    Immunity from petty care,
Freedom and leisure and the prize
    Of pleasing books and pictures fair.

To some He's given wide domains
    And high estate and tranquil ease,
And homes where all refinement reigns
    And everything combines to please.

To some He's given minds to know
    The what and how, the where and when;
To some, a genius that can throw
    A light upon the hearts of men.

To some He's given fortunes free
    From sorrows and replete with joys;
To some, a thousand friends; to me
    He's given my two little boys.

MY OLD CLASSICAL MASTER.

Ever hail'd with delight when my memory strays
O'er the various scenes of my juvenile days,
Do you mind if I sing a poor song in your praise,
                    My jolly old classical master?

You were kind—over-lenient, 'twas rumor'd, to rule—
And so learn'd, though the blithest of all in the school,
'Twas your pupil's own fault if he left you a fool,
                    My jolly old classical master.

"Polumetis Odusseus" you brought back to life,
"Xanthos Menelaos" recalled to the strife:
You knew more about Homer than Homer's own wife,
                    My jolly old classical master.

You could sever each classical Gordian knot,
Each "crux criticorum" explain on the spot;
We preferr'd your opinion to Liddell and Scott,
                    My jolly old classical