The Arrival
LEAVING H OME
He asks his companion to sit down with him while he recounts the story of his journey from the fatherland.
He moralizes on the changes of fifty years.
He recalls the friends who met to bid him farewell.
It was a morning in spring when all nature, though beautiful, seemed to have an air of sympathetic sadness.
His grandfather comes to give him his blessing.
The grandfather's parting counsel.
The J OURNEY
He describes the motley company on the ship.
The teacher, the preacher, the mechanic, the politician, etc.
When the sea is calm they tell each other their story.
Tom's song: " Old England is eaten by knaves. "
Mac's song: " Farewell! Caledonia. "
The A RRIVAL
The journey through the woods; camping at night.
They sing in praise of rural life: " The Greenwood Shade. "
After rest on bare ground they struggle through a swamp.
In a forest of maples and beeches they find birds of beauteous hue, but devoid of song.
Bill from Kent shoots a deer.
The dead hind.
They reach the promised land. The poet pauses to reflect on his departed companions, all gone but himself.
Cutting THE F IRST T REE
The tent raised on a point of land jutting into the lake.
A duck, a crane, a stag, take alarm and flee.
The first attempt to fell an elm.
Lazy Bill despairs of success.
The fall of the tree.
Their rejoicing.
The orator's exulting speech.
Doubting John prepares to speak.
He tells a parable in favor of co-operation.
The L OG C ABIN
The poet describes its solitary situation and surroundings.
The Summer's work.
Autumn and Indian Summer.
Visits of wolves.
Amusements of Winter.
Little Mac's song: " I ask not for Fortune. "
The applause of the listeners.
The hunter's song: " The Indian Maid. "
Tales told by the old.
Ballad: " The Gipsy King. "
The I NDIAN B ATTLE
Lazy Bill announces the onset of the Mohawks.
Commotion among the settlers.
Muster of the fighting men.
March to a little height where the attack is awaited. Sounds of a struggle in the woods. Then silence. A scout announces that two tribes are fighting.
The chiefs agree to settle the quarrel by single combat.
Description of " Eagle. "
Description of " Hemlock. "
The combat. Victory of " Eagle " and scalping of " Hemlock. "
The Hurons carry off their dead chief.
D ONALD B AN
The Highland hunter with the spirit of an ancient bard, who loves to commune with Nature and peer into her mysteries.
Destruction of the old home of his race, and banishment from his native land.
Solace in playing the pipes.
Song of the exile: " Why Left I my Country. "
The death of his wife and son leave him alone with his hound.
He becomes blind.
He wanders with his hound for guide, playing the pipes for youths and maidens to dance to.
Return to his cabin in Autumn.
His song: " The Old Highland Piper. "
On his death-bed his wandering mind reverts to the scenes of his youth.
His death.
Parting address of the poet to his dead friend.
Au Revoir.
I NTRODUCTION : A POSTROPHE TO C ANADA
L AND of mighty lake and forest!
Where stern Winter's locks are hoarest;
Where warm Summer's leaf is greenest,
And old Winter's bite the keenest;
Where mild Autumn's leaf is searest,
And her parting smile the dearest;
Where the Tempest rushes forth
From his caverns of the north,
With the lightnings of his wrath
Sweeping forests from his path;
Where the Cataract stupendous
Lifteth up her voice tremendous;
Where uncultivated Nature
Rears her pines of giant stature —
Sows her jagged hemlocks o'er,
Thick as bristles on the boar —
Plants the stately elm and oak
Firmly in the iron rock;
Where the crane her course is steering,
And the eagle is careering;
Where the gentle deer are bounding,
And the woodman's ax resounding, —
Land of mighty lake and river,
To our hearts thou'rt dear forever!
Thou art not a land of story;
Thou art not a land of glory;
No traditions, tales, nor song
To thine ancient woods belong;
No long line of bards and sages
Looking on us down the ages;
No old heroes sweeping by
In their war-like panoply.
YeTheroic deeds are done
Where no battle's lost or won;
In the cottage in the woods,
In the desert solitudes,
Pledges of affection given
That will be redeem'd in heaven.
Why seek in a foreign land
For the theme that's close at hand?
Human nature can be seen
Here within the forest green;
Let us wander where we will,
There's a world of good and ill.
Poetry is ev'rywhere —
In the common earth and air,
In the pen and in the stall,
In the hyssop on the wall,
In the wand'ring Arab's tent,
In the backwoods settlement.
Have we but the hearing ear,
It is always whisp'ring near;
Have we but the heart to feel it,
Mother Nature will reveal it.
The A RRIVAL
I
The weary world of waters pass'd,
In Canada arrived at last —
Pioneers of civilization,
Founders of a mighty nation —
Soon we entered in the woods,
O'er the trackless solitudes,
Where the spruce and cedar made
An interminable shade;
And we pick'd our way along,
Sometimes right, and sometimes wrong.
For a long and weary day
Thus we journey'd on our way;
Pick'd a path through swale and swamp,
And at ev'ning fix'd our camp
Where a cool, refreshing spring
Murmur'd like a living thing —
Like sweet Charity, I ween,
Tracking all its path with green.
Underneath a birchen tree
Down we sat right cheerfully,
Then of boughs a fire we made.
Gipsies in the greenwood shade,
Hunters in the forest free,
Never camp'd more gleefully;
And the woods with echoes rang,
While in concert thus we sang:
II
The Greenwood Shade
Oh, seek the greenwood shade,
Away from the city din,
From heartless strife of trade,
From fumes of beer and gin;
Where Commerce spreads her fleets,
Where bloated Luxury lies,
Where lean Want prowls the streets,
And stares with wolfish eyes.
Flee from the city's sin,
Its many-color'd code,
Its palaces raised to sin,
Its temples rear'd to God;
Its cellars dark and dank,
Where ne'er a sunbeam falls,
'Mid faces lean and lank
As the hungry-looking walls;
Its fest'ring pits of woe,
Its teeming earthly hells,
Whose surges ever flow
In sound of Sabbath bells.
O God! I'd rather be
An Indian in the wood,
To range through forest free
In search of daily food.
Oh! rather I'd pursue
The wolf and grizzly bear,
Than toil for the thankless few
In seething pits of care.
Here Winter's breath is rude,
His fingers cold and wan;
But what's his wildest mood
To the tyranny of man?
To trackless forest wild,
To loneliest abode,
The heart is reconciled
That's felt Oppression's load.
The desert place is bright,
The wilderness is fair,
If Hope but shed her light —
If Freedom be but there.
III
Singing thus we circl'd round.
All beyond was gloom profound,
And the flame upon us threw
Something of a spectral hue —
Such a scene, so wild and quaint,
Rosa would have lov'd to paint.
But, ere long, with sleep opprest,
There we laid us down to rest,
With the cold earth for our bed,
And the green boughs overhead;
And again, at break of day,
Started on our weary way,
Through morasses, over bogs,
Wading rivers, walking logs,
Scrambling over fallen trees,
Wading pond-holes to the knees;
Sometimes wand'ring from the track,
Then, to find it, turning back;
Scorning ills that would betide us,
Stout of heart, the sun to guide us.
IV
Then there came a change of scene —
Groves of beech and maples green,
Streams that murmur'd through the glade,
Little flowers that lov'd the shade.
Lovely birds of gorgeous dye
Flitted 'mong the branches high,
Color'd like the setting sun,
But were songless, ev'ry one:
No one like the linnet grey
In our home so far away;
No one singing like the thrush
To his mate within the brush;
No one like the gentle lark,
Singing 'tween the light and dark,
Soaring from the dewy sod,
Like a herald, up to God.
Some had lovely amber wings —
Round their necks were golden rings —
Some were purple, others blue,
All were lovely, strange and new;
But, altho' surpassing fair,
Still the song was wanting there.
Then we heard the rush of pigeons,
Flocking to those lonely regions;
And anon, when all was still,
Paus'd to hear the whip-poor-will;
And we thought of the cuckoo,
But this stranger no one knew.
V
Circling round a little lake,
Where the deer their thirst would slake,
Suddenly a lovely hind
Started up and snuff'd the wind.
Instantly bold Bill from Kent
Through its brain a bullet sent.
Desperate did the creature leap,
With a cry so wild and deep;
Tried to make another bound,
Reel'd, and sank upon the ground.
And the sound the rifle made
Woke the herd within the shade:
We could plainly hear them rush
Through the leaves and underbrush.
Fled afar the startled quail;
Partridge, with their fan-like tail,
Whirring past, with all their broods,
Sought the deeper solitudes.
VI
There the gentle thing lay dead,
With a deep gash in its head,
And its face and nostrils o'er
Spatter'd with the reeking gore;
There she lay, the lovely hind,
She who could outstrip the wind,
She, the beauty of the wood,
Slaughter'd thus to be our food.
VII
Then we journey'd on our way,
And, with the declining day,
Hail'd with joy the promis'd lot,
Sat down on this very spot;
Saw Ontario wind her way
'Round yon still, secluded bay.
Then it was a lonely scene,
Where man's foot had never been;
Now it is a busy mart,
Fill'd with many a thing of art.
Here I love to sit and trace
Changes that have taken place:
Not a landmark when we came,
Not a feature, seems the same.
My companions, where are they?
One by one they dropt away,
So of all I'm left the last,
Thus to chronicle the past.
He asks his companion to sit down with him while he recounts the story of his journey from the fatherland.
He moralizes on the changes of fifty years.
He recalls the friends who met to bid him farewell.
It was a morning in spring when all nature, though beautiful, seemed to have an air of sympathetic sadness.
His grandfather comes to give him his blessing.
The grandfather's parting counsel.
The J OURNEY
He describes the motley company on the ship.
The teacher, the preacher, the mechanic, the politician, etc.
When the sea is calm they tell each other their story.
Tom's song: " Old England is eaten by knaves. "
Mac's song: " Farewell! Caledonia. "
The A RRIVAL
The journey through the woods; camping at night.
They sing in praise of rural life: " The Greenwood Shade. "
After rest on bare ground they struggle through a swamp.
In a forest of maples and beeches they find birds of beauteous hue, but devoid of song.
Bill from Kent shoots a deer.
The dead hind.
They reach the promised land. The poet pauses to reflect on his departed companions, all gone but himself.
Cutting THE F IRST T REE
The tent raised on a point of land jutting into the lake.
A duck, a crane, a stag, take alarm and flee.
The first attempt to fell an elm.
Lazy Bill despairs of success.
The fall of the tree.
Their rejoicing.
The orator's exulting speech.
Doubting John prepares to speak.
He tells a parable in favor of co-operation.
The L OG C ABIN
The poet describes its solitary situation and surroundings.
The Summer's work.
Autumn and Indian Summer.
Visits of wolves.
Amusements of Winter.
Little Mac's song: " I ask not for Fortune. "
The applause of the listeners.
The hunter's song: " The Indian Maid. "
Tales told by the old.
Ballad: " The Gipsy King. "
The I NDIAN B ATTLE
Lazy Bill announces the onset of the Mohawks.
Commotion among the settlers.
Muster of the fighting men.
March to a little height where the attack is awaited. Sounds of a struggle in the woods. Then silence. A scout announces that two tribes are fighting.
The chiefs agree to settle the quarrel by single combat.
Description of " Eagle. "
Description of " Hemlock. "
The combat. Victory of " Eagle " and scalping of " Hemlock. "
The Hurons carry off their dead chief.
D ONALD B AN
The Highland hunter with the spirit of an ancient bard, who loves to commune with Nature and peer into her mysteries.
Destruction of the old home of his race, and banishment from his native land.
Solace in playing the pipes.
Song of the exile: " Why Left I my Country. "
The death of his wife and son leave him alone with his hound.
He becomes blind.
He wanders with his hound for guide, playing the pipes for youths and maidens to dance to.
Return to his cabin in Autumn.
His song: " The Old Highland Piper. "
On his death-bed his wandering mind reverts to the scenes of his youth.
His death.
Parting address of the poet to his dead friend.
Au Revoir.
I NTRODUCTION : A POSTROPHE TO C ANADA
L AND of mighty lake and forest!
Where stern Winter's locks are hoarest;
Where warm Summer's leaf is greenest,
And old Winter's bite the keenest;
Where mild Autumn's leaf is searest,
And her parting smile the dearest;
Where the Tempest rushes forth
From his caverns of the north,
With the lightnings of his wrath
Sweeping forests from his path;
Where the Cataract stupendous
Lifteth up her voice tremendous;
Where uncultivated Nature
Rears her pines of giant stature —
Sows her jagged hemlocks o'er,
Thick as bristles on the boar —
Plants the stately elm and oak
Firmly in the iron rock;
Where the crane her course is steering,
And the eagle is careering;
Where the gentle deer are bounding,
And the woodman's ax resounding, —
Land of mighty lake and river,
To our hearts thou'rt dear forever!
Thou art not a land of story;
Thou art not a land of glory;
No traditions, tales, nor song
To thine ancient woods belong;
No long line of bards and sages
Looking on us down the ages;
No old heroes sweeping by
In their war-like panoply.
YeTheroic deeds are done
Where no battle's lost or won;
In the cottage in the woods,
In the desert solitudes,
Pledges of affection given
That will be redeem'd in heaven.
Why seek in a foreign land
For the theme that's close at hand?
Human nature can be seen
Here within the forest green;
Let us wander where we will,
There's a world of good and ill.
Poetry is ev'rywhere —
In the common earth and air,
In the pen and in the stall,
In the hyssop on the wall,
In the wand'ring Arab's tent,
In the backwoods settlement.
Have we but the hearing ear,
It is always whisp'ring near;
Have we but the heart to feel it,
Mother Nature will reveal it.
The A RRIVAL
I
The weary world of waters pass'd,
In Canada arrived at last —
Pioneers of civilization,
Founders of a mighty nation —
Soon we entered in the woods,
O'er the trackless solitudes,
Where the spruce and cedar made
An interminable shade;
And we pick'd our way along,
Sometimes right, and sometimes wrong.
For a long and weary day
Thus we journey'd on our way;
Pick'd a path through swale and swamp,
And at ev'ning fix'd our camp
Where a cool, refreshing spring
Murmur'd like a living thing —
Like sweet Charity, I ween,
Tracking all its path with green.
Underneath a birchen tree
Down we sat right cheerfully,
Then of boughs a fire we made.
Gipsies in the greenwood shade,
Hunters in the forest free,
Never camp'd more gleefully;
And the woods with echoes rang,
While in concert thus we sang:
II
The Greenwood Shade
Oh, seek the greenwood shade,
Away from the city din,
From heartless strife of trade,
From fumes of beer and gin;
Where Commerce spreads her fleets,
Where bloated Luxury lies,
Where lean Want prowls the streets,
And stares with wolfish eyes.
Flee from the city's sin,
Its many-color'd code,
Its palaces raised to sin,
Its temples rear'd to God;
Its cellars dark and dank,
Where ne'er a sunbeam falls,
'Mid faces lean and lank
As the hungry-looking walls;
Its fest'ring pits of woe,
Its teeming earthly hells,
Whose surges ever flow
In sound of Sabbath bells.
O God! I'd rather be
An Indian in the wood,
To range through forest free
In search of daily food.
Oh! rather I'd pursue
The wolf and grizzly bear,
Than toil for the thankless few
In seething pits of care.
Here Winter's breath is rude,
His fingers cold and wan;
But what's his wildest mood
To the tyranny of man?
To trackless forest wild,
To loneliest abode,
The heart is reconciled
That's felt Oppression's load.
The desert place is bright,
The wilderness is fair,
If Hope but shed her light —
If Freedom be but there.
III
Singing thus we circl'd round.
All beyond was gloom profound,
And the flame upon us threw
Something of a spectral hue —
Such a scene, so wild and quaint,
Rosa would have lov'd to paint.
But, ere long, with sleep opprest,
There we laid us down to rest,
With the cold earth for our bed,
And the green boughs overhead;
And again, at break of day,
Started on our weary way,
Through morasses, over bogs,
Wading rivers, walking logs,
Scrambling over fallen trees,
Wading pond-holes to the knees;
Sometimes wand'ring from the track,
Then, to find it, turning back;
Scorning ills that would betide us,
Stout of heart, the sun to guide us.
IV
Then there came a change of scene —
Groves of beech and maples green,
Streams that murmur'd through the glade,
Little flowers that lov'd the shade.
Lovely birds of gorgeous dye
Flitted 'mong the branches high,
Color'd like the setting sun,
But were songless, ev'ry one:
No one like the linnet grey
In our home so far away;
No one singing like the thrush
To his mate within the brush;
No one like the gentle lark,
Singing 'tween the light and dark,
Soaring from the dewy sod,
Like a herald, up to God.
Some had lovely amber wings —
Round their necks were golden rings —
Some were purple, others blue,
All were lovely, strange and new;
But, altho' surpassing fair,
Still the song was wanting there.
Then we heard the rush of pigeons,
Flocking to those lonely regions;
And anon, when all was still,
Paus'd to hear the whip-poor-will;
And we thought of the cuckoo,
But this stranger no one knew.
V
Circling round a little lake,
Where the deer their thirst would slake,
Suddenly a lovely hind
Started up and snuff'd the wind.
Instantly bold Bill from Kent
Through its brain a bullet sent.
Desperate did the creature leap,
With a cry so wild and deep;
Tried to make another bound,
Reel'd, and sank upon the ground.
And the sound the rifle made
Woke the herd within the shade:
We could plainly hear them rush
Through the leaves and underbrush.
Fled afar the startled quail;
Partridge, with their fan-like tail,
Whirring past, with all their broods,
Sought the deeper solitudes.
VI
There the gentle thing lay dead,
With a deep gash in its head,
And its face and nostrils o'er
Spatter'd with the reeking gore;
There she lay, the lovely hind,
She who could outstrip the wind,
She, the beauty of the wood,
Slaughter'd thus to be our food.
VII
Then we journey'd on our way,
And, with the declining day,
Hail'd with joy the promis'd lot,
Sat down on this very spot;
Saw Ontario wind her way
'Round yon still, secluded bay.
Then it was a lonely scene,
Where man's foot had never been;
Now it is a busy mart,
Fill'd with many a thing of art.
Here I love to sit and trace
Changes that have taken place:
Not a landmark when we came,
Not a feature, seems the same.
My companions, where are they?
One by one they dropt away,
So of all I'm left the last,
Thus to chronicle the past.
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