ADIEU TO FRANCE

ADIEU to France! my latest glance
Falls on thy port and bay, Rochelle ;
The sun-rays on the surf-curls dance,
And springtime, like a pleasing spell,
Harmonious holds the land and sea.

How long, alas, I cannot tell,
Ere this scene will come back to me !

The hours fleet fast, and on the mast
Soon shall I hoist the parting sail ;
Soon will the outer bay be passed,

And on the sky-line eyes will fail
To see a streak that means the land.

On, then! before the tides and gale,
Hope at the helm, and in God's hand.

What doom I meet, my heart will beat
For France, the débonnaire and gay;
She ever will in memory's seat

Be present to my mind alway.
Hope whispers my return to you,
Dear land, but should Fate say me

nay,

And this should be my latest view,

Fair France, loved France, my France, adieu !

Salut à la France, salut !

TWILIGHT SONG

THE mountain peaks put on their hoods,
Good-night!

And the long shadows of the woods
Would fain the landscape cover quite ;
The timid pigeons homeward fly,
Scared by the whoop owl's eerie cry,
Whoo-oop! whoo-oop!

As like a fiend he flitteth by ;
The ox to stall, the fowl to coop,
The old man to his nightcap warm,
Young men and maids to slumbers light, —
Sweet Mary, keep our souls from harm!
Good-night! good-night!

THE GALLANT FLEET

A GALLANT fleet sailed out to sea With the pennons streaming merrily.

On the hulls the tempest lit,
And the great ships split
In the gale,

And the foaming fierce sea-horses

FROM "TECUMSEH: A DRAMA"

LEFROY IN THE FOREST

THIS region is as lavish of its flowers
As Heaven of its primrose blooms by night.
This is the Arum, which within its root
Folds life and death; and this the Prince's
Pine,

Fadeless as love and truth-the fairest form

That ever sun-shower washed with sudden rain.

This golden cradle is the Moccasin Flower, Wherein the Indian hunter sees his hound; And this dark chalice is the Pitcher-Plant, Stored with the water of forgetfulness. Whoever drinks of it, whose heart is pure, Will sleep for aye 'neath foodfull asphodel, And dream of endless love.

There was a time on this fair continent When all things throve in spacious peacefulness.

The prosperous forests unmolested stood, For where the stalwart oak grew there it lived

Long ages, and then died among its kind. The hoary pines - those ancients of the earth

Brimful of legends of the early world, Stood thick on their own mountains unsubdued ;

And all things else illumined by the sun,
Inland or by the lifted wave, had rest.
The passionate or calm pageants of the skies
No artist drew; but in the auburn west
Innumerable faces of fair cloud

Vanished in silent darkness with the day. The prairie realm - vast ocean's paraphrase

Rich in wild grasses numberless, and flowers Unnamed save in mute Nature's inventory, No civilized barbarian trenched for gain. And all that flowed was sweet and uncor

And ocean wastes unshadowed by a sail. And all the wild life of this western world Knew not the fear of man; yet in those woods,

And by those plenteous streams and mighty lakes,

And on stupendous steppes of peerless plain, And in the rocky gloom of canyons deep, Screened by the stony ribs of mountains hoar Which steeped their snowy peaks in purging cloud,

And down the continent where tropic suns Warmed to her very heart the mother earth,

And in the congealed north where silence self

Ached with intensity of stubborn frost, There lived a soul more wild than barba

Which through long reaches of the prairie wound,

Then melted slowly into upland vales, Lingering, far - stretched amongst the spreading hills.

Brock. What charming solitudes! And life was there!

Lefroy. Yes, life was there! inexplicable life,

Still wasted by inexorable death.

There had the stately stag his battle-field
Dying for mastery among his hinds.
There vainly sprung the affrighted ante-
lope,

Beset by glittering eyes and hurrying feet. The dancing grouse, at their insensate sport,

Heard not the stealthy footstep of the fox;

The gopher on his little earthwork stood, With folded arms, unconscious of the fate That wheeled in narrowing circles overhead,

And the poor mouse, on heedless nibbling bent,

Marked not the silent coiling of the snake. At length we heard a deep and solemn sound

Erupted moanings of the troubled earth
Trembling beneath innumerable feet.

UP, my dogs, merrily,
The morn sun is shining,
Our path is uncertain,
And night's sombre curtain
May drop on us, verily,
Ere time for reclining;
So, up, without whining,
You rascals, instanter,

Come into your places

There, stretch out your traces,

And off, at a canter.

Up, my dogs, cheerily,
The noon sun is glowing;
Fast and still faster,

Come, follow your master; Or to-night we may wearily, Tired and drearily,

Travel, not knowing

What moment disaster May sweep in the storm-blast, And over each form cast

A shroud in its blowing.

On, my dogs, steadily,

Though keen winds are shifting
The snowflakes, and drifting

Them straight in your faces;
Come, answer me readily,
Not wildly nor headily,
Plunging and lifting

Your feet, keep your paces; For yet we shall weather The blizzard together,

Though evil our case is.

Sleep, my dogs, cosily,
Coiled near the fire,
That higher and higher
Sheds its light rosily
Out o'er the snow and sky;
Sleep in the ruddy glow,
Letting Keewaydin blow
Fierce in his ire.
Sleep, my dogs, soundly;
For to-morrow we roundly
Must buffet the foe.

A BLOOD-RED RING HUNG ROUND THE MOON

A BLOOD-RED ring hung round the moon, Hung round the moon. Ah me! Ah me!

I heard the piping of the Loon,
A wounded Loon. Ah me!
And yet the eagle feathers rare,
I, trembling, wove in my brave's hair.

He left me in the early morn,

The early morn. Ah me! Ah me! The feathers swayed like stately corn, So like the corn. Ah me!

A fierce wind swept across the plain,
The stately corn was snapped in twain.

They crushed in blood the hated race,
The hated race. Ah me! Ah me !
I only clasped a cold, blind face,
His cold, dead face. Ah me!
A blood-red ring hangs in my sight,
I hear the Loon cry every night.

TO A HUMMING BIRD IN A GARDEN

BLITHE playmate of the Summer time,
Admiringly I greet thee;
Born in old England's misty clime,
I scarcely hoped to meet thee.

Com'st thou from forests of Peru,
Or from Brazil's savannahs,
Where flowers of every dazzling hue
Flaunt, gorgeous as Sultanas?

Thou scannest me with doubtful gaze,
Suspicious little stranger!
Fear not, thy burnished wings may
blaze

Secure from harm or danger.

Now here, now there, thy flash is

seen,

Like some stray sunbeam darting,

With scarce a second's space between
Its coming and departing.

Mate of the bird that lives sublime
In Pat's immortal blunder,
Spied in two places at a time,
Thou challengest our wonder.

Suspended by thy slender bill,

Sweet blooms thou lov'st to rifle ;
The subtle perfumes they distil
Might well thy being stifle.

Surely the honey-dew of flowers
Is slightly alcoholic,

Or why, through burning August hours,
Dost thou pursue thy frolic?

What though thy throatlet never rings
With music, soft or stirring;
Still, like a spinning-wheel, thy wings
Incessantly are whirring.