Part 2 (2/2)

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 suns.h.i.+ne 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' n.o.ble 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 accursed l.u.s.t, 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 s.h.a.ggy 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 pa.s.sionate 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!

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