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Susanna
Moodie
1803-1885
Susanna
(Strickland) Moodie was born near Bungay,
Suffolk, England, Son December 6, 1803, into a
middle class family in which six of eight children
developed literary aspirations. In 1822, Susanna
Moodie’s romantic historical novel Spartacus
was published in London, to be followed by fiction
for young adults and a book of poetry, Enthusiasm,
and Other Poems, published in 1831, the year
in which she married John Dunbar Moodie. The following
year she and her husband emigrated to Canada and
she lived the rest of her life in Ontario. She
died in Toronto in 1885 and was buried in Belleville.
Primarily
because of Roughing It in the Bush; or, Life
in Canada (1852), an account of her arrival
and settlement in Upper Canada, Susanna Moodie
has become one of the central figures of nineteenth-century
Canadian literature, attracting considerable critical
attention and achieving reincarnation in such
texts as Margaret Atwood’s Journals
of Susanna Moodie (1970) and Carol Shields’
Small Ceremonies (1976). Both Roughing
It in the Bush and Life in the Clearings
Versus the Bush (1853) contain a substantial
number of poems that Moodie included “in
order to diversify [her] subject and make it as
amusing as possible” (Introduction to Roughing
It xiii). Most of these poems had previously
appeared in newspapers and periodicals including
the Albion (New York), the Literary
Garland (Montreal), the Palladium
(Toronto), and the North American Magazine
(Philadelphia). In 1833, she complained to the
editor of the Albion of Canada’s
“chilly atmosphere” that was “little
favourable to the spirit of Poesy” (Letters
of a Lifetime 90), but her poems were, in fact,
warmly received. In March, 1833, R.D. Chatterton,
the editor of the Cobourg Star, reprinted
two poems that had just appeared in the Albion:
With
us the beauty and chief attraction of Mrs. Moodie’s
Poetry arises from the delicacy of sentiment
and the enthusiastic feelings, that pervade
it. We [Page 3] meet not the
lofty, gaudy, oriental language, which so illuminates
the poetry of Mrs. Hemans, but a simple and
energetic language which cannot fail to reach
the hearts of every true lover of poetry. (Letters
of a Lifetime 75)
Until
recently, with the exception of various articles
by Carl Ballstadt, little attention has been paid
to Moodie’s poetry, probably because much
of it was excised from reprints of her books.
In 1991, Susan Glickman explored the religious
impetus behind Moodie’s Enthusiasm,
and Other Poems and, in 1997, Elizabeth Thompson
revealed how the topic and placement of the poems
in Roughing It in the Bush provide a
“textual commentary” (58) on the prose.
The poems, Thompson argues, though “unexceptional
in structure and style,” are “textually
significant” because they reveal Moodie’s
shifting perspectives on emigration and settlement
(67). John Thurston’s Work of Words
(1996) provides details of publication history
for many of her poems.
As
Carole Gerson points out in Canada’s
Early Women Writers: Texts in English to 1859
and elsewhere, there are many “shadowy sisters”
whose work has been obscured by the emphasis on
those like Moodie who spent only part of their
lives in Canada, but her work nonetheless stands
as an “embryo blossom” (“The
future flower…” 27) signalling more
accomplished poetry to come. Like many of the
Canadian poets to follow, Moodie addresses the
emigrant experience, unique aspects of the Canadian
landscape, the aboriginal encounter, and various
patriotic themes, in addition to more didactic
explorations of temptation and domestic strife.
She argues that, though “illustrious names
and incidents are perhaps better suited to the
splendid language of poetry,” the “sweet
charities of domestic life…which unite us
more closely with our kind” are also fit
subjects for poetic treatment.
Some
of her finest poems, such as “The Otonabee,”
reveal an intriguing subtext of longing for a
vanishing wilderness. Though that poem ends by
celebrating the maternal bounty of a tamed river,
it also laments “the hand on [the] mane”
of the “rash, unbridled steed.” At
the age of sixty-six, Moodie wrote to a friend
in England, “I look and feel a very old
woman ….You would not know the wild Suffolk
girl so full of romance in me” (Letters
of a Lifetime 254). [Page 4]
Selected
Bibliography
Enthusiasm,
and Other Poems (London: Smith, Elder, 1831)
“The Apostate.” Literary Garland
4 (1842): 55-57, 113-16, 157-60,
210-14.
Roughing It in the Bush; or Life in Canada
(London: Bentley, 1852)
Life in the Clearings versus the Bush
(London: Bentley, 1853)
John
Moir, “Four Poems on the Rebellion of 1837,”
Ontario History 57.1 (1965): 47-52; Margaret
Atwood, The Journals of Susanna Moodie
(Toronto: Oxford UP, 1970); Carl Ballstadt, “Proficient
in the Gentle Craft,” Copperfield
5 (1974): 101-09; Carol Shields, Susanna Moodie:
Voice and Vision (Ottawa: Borealis, 1977);
Carl Ballstadt, Elizabeth Hopkins, and Michael
Peterman, eds. Susanna Moodie: Letters of
a Lifetime (Toronto: U of Toronto P, 1985);
Carl Ballstadt, “Secure in Conscious Worth:
Susanna Moodie and the Rebellion of 1837,”
Canadian Poetry 18 (Spring/Summer 1986):
88-98; Carl Ballstadt, “Introduction.”
Roughing It in the Bush; or, Life in Canada
(Ottawa: Carleton UP, 1988): xvii-lx; Carl Ballstadt,
“Susanna Moodie,” Dictionary of
Literary Biography 99 (1990): 247-55; Susan
Glickman, “The Waxing and Waning of Susanna
Moodie’s ‘Enthusiasm,’”
Canadian Literature 130 (Autumn 1991):
7-26; Michael Peterman, “Susanna Moodie,”
Canadian Writers and Their Works: Fiction
Series (Toronto: ECW, 1983) 1:63-104; Carl
Ballstadt, Elizabeth Hopkins and Michael Peterman,
eds. Letters of Love and Duty: the Correspondence
of Susanna and John Moodie (Toronto: U of
Toronto P, 1993); John Thurston, “‘The
Casket of Truth’: the Social Significance
of Susanna Moodie’s Spiritual Dilemmas,”
Canadian Poetry 35 (Fall/Winter 1994):
31-62; John Thurston, The Work of Words: the
Writing of Susanna Strickland Moodie (Montreal:
McGill-Queen’s UP, 1996); Elizabeth Thompson,
“Roughing It in the Bush: Patterns
of Emigration and Settlement in Susanna Moodie’s
Poetry,” Canadian Poetry 40 (Spring/Summer
1997): 58-73. [Page 5] |
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Oh! Can You Leave Your Native Land?
A Canadian Song
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Oh!
can you leave your native land
An exile’s bride to be;
Your mother’s home, and cheerful hearth,
To tempt the main with me;
Across the wide and stormy sea |
5 |
To
trace our foaming track,
And know the wave that heaves us on
Will never bear us back?
And can you in Canadian woods
With me the harvest bind,
|
10 |
Nor
feel one lingering, sad regret
For all you leave behind?
Can those dear hands, unused to toil,
The woodman’s wants supply,
Not shrink beneath the chilly blast |
15 |
| When
wintry storms are nigh?
Amid the shades of forests dark,
Our loved isle will appear
An Eden, whose delicious bloom
Will make the wild more drear.
|
20 |
And
you in solitude will weep
O’er scenes beloved in vain,
And pine away your life to view
Once more your native plain.
Then pause, dear girl! ere those fond lips
|
25 |
Your
wanderer’s fate decide;
My spirit spurns the selfish wish—
You must not be my bride. [Page 6]
But oh, that smile—those tearful eyes,
My firmer purpose move— |
30 |
Our
hearts are one, and we will dare
All perils thus to love! |
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Canadian
Literary Roughing
It in
Magazine 1833 (1:56) the
Bush 1852 |
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’Tis
merry to hear, at evening time,
By the blazing hearth the sleigh-bells’ chime;
To know the bounding steeds bring near
The loved one to our bosoms dear.
Ah, lightly we spring the fire to raise, |
5 |
Till
the rafters glow with the ruddy blaze;
Those merry sleigh-bells, our hearts keep time
Responsive to their fairy chime.
Ding-dong, ding-dong, o’er vale and hill,
Their welcome notes are trembling still. |
10 |
’Tis
he, and blithely the gay bells sound,
As his sleigh glides over the frozen ground;
Hark! he has pass’d the dark pine wood,
He crosses now the ice-bound flood,
And hails the light at the open door |
15 |
That
tells his toilsome journey’s o’er.
The merry sleigh-bells! My fond heart swells
And throbs to hear the welcome bells;
Ding-dong, ding-dong, o’er ice and snow,
A voice of gladness, on they go. |
20 |
Our
hut is small, and rude our cheer,
But love has spread the banquet here; [Page
7]
And childhood springs to be caress’d
By our beloved and welcome guest.
With a smiling brow his tale he tells, |
25 |
The
urchins ring the merry sleigh-bells;
The merry sleigh-bells, with shout and song
They drag the noisy string along;
Ding-dong, ding-dong, the father’s come,
The gay bells ring his welcome home. |
30 |
From
the cedar swamp the gaunt wolves howl,
From the oak loud whoops the felon owl;
The snow-storm sweeps in thunder past,
The forest creaks beneath the blast;
No more I list, with boding fear, |
35 |
The
sleigh-bells’ distant chime to hear.
The merry sleigh-bells with soothing power
Shed gladness on the evening hour.
Ding-dong, ding-dong, what rapture swells
The music of those joyous bells! |
40 |
*
Many versions have been given of this song, and
it has been set to music in the States. I here
give the original copy, written whilst leaning
on the open door of my shanty, and watching for
the return of my husband.[back] |
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Albion
2 March
Roughing It in
1833 (72) the
Bush 1852 |
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Son
of the isles! rave not to me
Of the old world’s pride and luxury;
Why did you cross the western deep,
Thus like a love-lorn maid to weep
O’er comforts gone and pleasures fled, |
5 |
| ’Mid
forests wild to earn your bread?
Did you expect that Art would vie
With Nature here, to please the eye;
That stately tower, and fancy cot,
Would grace each rude concession lot;
|
10 |
That,
independent of your hearth,
Men would admit your claims to birth? [Page
8]
No tyrant’s fetter binds the soul,
The mind of man’s above control;
Necessity, that makes the slave,
|
15 |
Has
taught the free a course more brave.
With bold, determined heart to dare
The ills that all are born to share.
Believe me, youth, the truly great
Stoop not to mourn o’er fallen state;
|
20 |
They
make their wants and wishes less,
And rise superior to distress;
The glebe they break—the sheaf they bind—
But elevates a noble mind.
Contented in my rugged cot,
|
25 |
Your
lordly towers I envy not;
Though rude our clime and coarse our cheer,
True independence greets you here;
Amid these forests dark and wild,
Dwells honest labour’s hardy child. |
30 |
His
happy lot I gladly share,
And breathe a purer, freer air;
No more by wealthy upstarts spurn’d,
The bread is sweet by labour earn’d;
Indulgent heaven has bless’d the soil, |
35 |
| And
plenty crowns the woodman’s toil.
Beneath his axe, the forest yields
Its thorny maze to fertile fields;
This goodly breadth of well-till’d land,
Well purchased by his own right hand,
|
40 |
With
conscience clear, he can bequeath
His children, when he sleeps in death. [Page
9] |
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Kingston
Spectator
Roughing
It in
10 July 1833 (1) the
Bush 1852 |
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“Who
can read the Poet’s dream,
Shadow forth his glorious theme,
And in written language tell
The workings of the potent spell,
Whose mysterious tones impart |
5 |
Life
and vigour to his heart?
’Tis an emanation bright,
Shooting from the fount of light;
Flowing in upon the mind,
Like sudden dayspring on the blind; |
10 |
Gilding
with immortal dyes
Scenes unknown to common eyes;
Revealing to the mental sight
Visions of untold delight.
’Tis the key by fancy brought, |
15 |
That
opens up the world of thought;
A sense of power, a pleasing madness,
A hope in grief, a joy in sadness,
A taste for beauty unalloyed,
A love of nature never cloyed; |
20 |
The
upward soaring of a soul
Unfettr’d by the world’s control,
Onward, heavenward ever tending,
Its essence with the Eternal blending;
Till, from ‘mortal coil’ shook free,
|
25 |
| It shares
the seraph’s ecstasy.” |
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North
American Quarterly
Life in the Clearings
Magazine 1836
(2:262) versus
the Bush 1853 |
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Oh Canada! Thy Gloomy Woods
A Song
|
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Oh Canada!
thy gloomy woods
Will never cheer the heart;
[Page 10]
The murmur of thy mighty floods
But cause fresh tears to
start
From those whose fondest wishes rest |
5 |
Beyond
the distant main;
Who, ’mid the forests of the West,
Sigh for their homes again.
I, too, have felt the chilling blight
Their shadows cast on me,
|
10 |
My thought
by day—my dream by night—
Was of my own country.
But independent souls will brave
All hardships to be free;
No more I weep to cross the wave, |
15 |
My
native land to see.
But ever as a thought most bless’d,
Her distant shores will
rise.
In all their spring-tide beauty dress’d,
To cheer my mental eyes.
|
20 |
And,
treasured in my inmost heart,
The friends I left behind;
But reason’s voice, that bade us part,
Now bids me be resign’d.
I see my children round me play,
|
25 |
My
husband’s smiles approve;
I dash regretful tears away,
And lift my thoughts above:
In humble gratitude to bless
The Almighty hand that spread |
30 |
Our
table in the wilderness,
And gave my infants bread.
[Page 11] |
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North
American Quarterly
Roughing It in
Magazine 1836
(8:198)
the Bush 1852 |
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The Lament of a Canadian Emigrant
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Though
distant, in spirit still present to me,
My best thoughts, my country, still linger with
thee;
My fond heart beats quick, and my dim eyes run o’er,
When I muse on the last glance I gave to thy shore.
The chill mists of night round thy white cliffs
were curl’d, |
5 |
But
I felt there was no spot like thee in the world—
No home to which memory so fondly would turn,
No thought that within me so madly would burn.
But one stood beside me whose presence repress’d
The deep pang of sorrow that troubled my breast;
|
10 |
And
the babe on my bosom so calmly reclining,
Check’d the tears as they rose, and all useless
repining.
The stern voice of duty compell’d me to roam,
From country and friends—the enjoyments of
home;
But faith in the future my anguish restrain’d
|
15 |
| And
my soul in that dark hour of parting sustain’d.
Bless’d Isle of the Free! I must view thee
no more;
My fortunes are cast on this far distant shore;
In the depths of dark forests my soul droops her
wings;
In tall boughs above me no merry bird sings;
|
20 |
The
sigh of the wild winds—the rush of the floods—
Is the only sad music that wakens the woods.
In
dreams, lovely England! my spirit still hails
Thy soft waving woodlands, thy green, daisied
vales.
When my heart shall grow cold to the mother that
bore me,
|
25 |
When
my soul, dearest Nature! shall cease to adore thee,
And beauty and virtue no longer impart
Delight to my bosom, and warmth to my heart,
Then the love I have cherish’d, my country,
for thee,
In the breast of thy daughter extinguish’d
shall be. [Page 12] |
30 |
North
American Quarterly
Roughing It in
Magazine 1836 (8:366) the
Bush 1852 |
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Dark,
rushing, foaming river!
I love the solemn sound
That shakes thy shores around,
And hoarsely murmurs, ever,
As thy waters onward bound, |
5 |
Like
a rash, unbridled steed
Flying madly on its course;
That shakes with thundering force
The vale and trembling mead.
So thy billows downward sweep, |
10 |
Nor
rock nor tree can stay
Their fierce, impetuous
way;
Now in eddies whirling deep,
Now in rapids white with
spray.
I love thee, lonely river!
|
15 |
Thy
hollow restless roar,
Thy cedar-girded*
shore;
The rocky isles that sever
The waves that round them
pour.
Katchawanook†
basks in light, |
20 |
But
thy currents woo the shade
By thy lofty pine-trees made,
That cast a gloom like night,
Ere day’s last glories fade.
Thy solitary voice |
25 |
The
same bold anthem sung
When Nature’s frame was young.
No longer shall rejoice
The woods where erst it rung. [Page 13]
Lament, lament, wild river!
|
30 |
A
hand is on thy mane*
That will bind thee in a
chain
No force of thine can sever.
Thy furious headlong tide,
In murmurs soft and low, |
35 |
Is
destined yet to glide
To meet the lake below;
And many a bark shall ride
Securely on thy breast,
To waft across the main |
40 |
Rich
stores of golden grain
From the valleys of the West. |
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*
The banks of the river have since been denuded
of trees. The rocks that formed the falls and
rapids have been blasted out. It is tame enough
now.[back] |
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†
This is the Indian name for one of the many expansions
of this beautiful river.[back] |
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*
Some idea of the rapidity of this river may be
formed from the fact that heavy rafts of timber
are floated down from Herriot’s Falls, a
distance of nine miles from Peterborough, in less
than an hour. The shores are bold and rocky, and
abound in beautiful and picturesque views.[back] |
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Literary
Garland
Roughing It in
February 1843 (1:63) the
Bush 1852 |
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The Indian Fisherman’s Light
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The
air is still, the night is dark,
No ripple breaks the dusky
tide;
From isle to isle the fisher’s bark
Like fairy meteor seems
to glide;
Now lost in shade—now flashing bright |
5 |
On
sleeping wave and forest tree;
We hail with joy the ruddy light,
Which far into the darksome night
Shines red and cheerily!
With spear high poised, and steady hand,
|
10 |
The
centre of that fiery ray,
Behold the Indian fisher stand
Prepared to strike the finny
ray,
Hurrah! the shaft has sped below— [Page
14]
Transfix’d the shining
prize I see; |
15 |
On swiftly
darts the birch canoe;
Yon black rock shrouding from my view
Its red light gleaming cheerily!
Around yon bluff, whose pine crest hides
The noisy rapids from our
sight,
|
20 |
Another
bark—another glides—
Red meteors of the murky
night.
The bosom of the silent stream
With mimic stars is dotted
free;
The waves reflect the double gleam, |
25 |
The
tall woods lighten in the beam,
Through darkness shining
cheerily! |
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Literary
Garland Roughing
It in
February 1843 (1:63) the
Bush 1852 |
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Lines
Written Upon The Prospect Of A War With
The American States; A Result Which It Is To
Be Devoutly Hoped, Will Only Exist In The Dreams
Of The Poet
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Canadians!
start not, at the gathering cry,
Of warring nations hurled
across the deep;
The British Lion, roused
from peaceful sleep,
With mane erect, and death-denouncing eye,
Prepares once more to take
a fatal leap, |
5 |
To crush
the vaunting foe!
Vain, vain Columbia’s
hopes of victory,—
He strikes no second blow.
Canadians! tremble not—while over-head,
The gorgeous folds of Britain’s
standard floats;
|
10 |
While
drum and trumpet tell in thrilling notes;
That ‘neath its shade your fathers fought
and bled—
Behold it wanton in your
free fresh air,
Soon shall it wave triumphant o’er the dead—
Nor to the world with shrinking
hearts declare |
15 |
| The
ancient spirit from the land is fled. [Page
15]
‘Arise!
in England’s might, for England’s
right,’
And drive the invader
from your happy land—
With hearts united, and
with fearless hand;
Strong in a righteous cause, prepare to fight—
|
20 |
Columbia’s
stars shall pale before the ray,
The bright outgushing of the glorious sun—
Her slavish stripes, may
cowards chase away,
To the determined brave; the word is, “On!”—
Columbia’s
hand the thunderbolt has hurl’d,
|
25 |
To
force an unjust war upon the brave,—
Her own rash act unchains
the soil-bound slave;
Degraded Helot of the western world—
The native chief awaits
the unholy strife,
With eager vengeance burning in his brain; |
30 |
He grasps
the hatchet, whets the murd’rous knife,
And the fierce war-whoop peals along the plain.
America,
beware! Retreat in time—
The stern decree, which
dooms to sword and flame
Thy prosperous cities,
blots the proud free name, |
35 |
That
erst thy children bore in ev’ry clime;
Serenely great—lay down the sword, and
find
A mark more fitting than a parent’s breast;
Still be the friend and
teacher of mankind,
In moral excellence supremely blessed. |
40 |
Literary
Garland
July 1846 (4:297) |
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“Oh!
ask not of my morn of life,
How dark and dull it gloom’d
o’er me;
Sharp words and fierce domestic strife,
Robb’d my young heart
of all its glee—
The sobs of one heart-broken wife, [Page
16] |
5 |
Low,
stifled moans of agony,
That fell upon my shrinking ear,
In hollow tones of woe and
fear;
As crouching, weeping, at her side,
I felt my soul with sorrow
swell, |
10 |
In pity
begg’d her not to hide
The cause of grief I knew
too well;
Then wept afresh to hear her pray
That death might take us both away!
“Away from whom? Alas! what ill
|
15 |
Press’d
the warm life-hopes from her heart?
Was she not young and lovely still?
What made the frequent tear-drops
start
From eyes, whose light of love could fill
My inmost soul, and bade
me part |
20 |
From
noisy comrades in the street,
To kiss her cheek, so cold and pale,
To clasp her neck, and hold
her hand,
And list the oft-repeated tale
Of woes I could not understand;
|
25 |
Yet
felt their force, as, day by day,
I watch’d her fade from life away.
“And he, the cause of all this
woe,
Her mate—the father
of her child,
In dread I saw him come and go, |
30 |
With
many an awful oath reviled;
And from harsh word, and harsher blow,
(In answer to her pleadings
mild)
I shrank in terror, till I caught
From her meek eyes th’ unwhisper’d thought— |
35 |
‘Bear
it, my Edward, for thy mother’s sake!
He cares not, in his sullen mood,
If this poor heart with
anguish break.’
That look was felt, and understood
By her young son, thus school’d
to bear |
40 |
His
wrongs, to soothe her deep despair. [Page
17]
“Oh, how I loath’d him!—how I
scorn’d
His idiot laugh, or demon
frown—
His features bloated and deform’d;
The jests with which he
sought to drown
|
45 |
The
consciousness of sin, or storm’d,
To put reproof or anger
down.
Oh, ’tis a fearful thing to feel
Stern, sullen hate, the bosom steel
’Gainst one whom nature
bids us prize, |
50 |
The
first link in her mystic chain;
Which binds in strong and
tender ties
The heart, while reason rules the brain,
And mingling love with holy
fear,
Renders the parent doubly
dear. |
55 |
“I cannot bear to think how deep
The hatred was I bore him
then;
But he has slept his last long sleep,
And I have trod the haunts
of men;
Have felt the tide of passion sweep |
60 |
Through
manhood’s fiery heart, and when
By strong temptation toss’d and tried,
I thought how that lost father died;
Unwept, unpitied, in his
sin;
Then tears of burning shame would rise, |
65 |
And
stern remorse awake within
A host of mental agonies.
He fell—by one dark
vice defiled;
Was I more pure—his
erring child?
“Yes—erring child; but to my tale.
|
70 |
My
mother loved that lost one still,
From the deep fount which could not fail
(Through changes dark, from
good to ill)
Her woman’s heart—and sad and pale,
She yielded to his stubborn
will; |
75 |
Perchance
she felt remonstrance vain— [Page
18]
The effort to resist gave pain.
But carefully she hid her
grief
From him, the idol of her youth;
And fondly hoped, against belief, |
80 |
That
her deep love and stedfast truth
Would touch his heart, and win him back
From Folly’s dark and devious track.
“Vain hope! the drunkard’s heart is
hard as stone,
No grief disturbs his selfish,
sensual joy;
|
85 |
His
wife may weep, his starving children groan,
And Poverty with cruel gripe
annoy:
He neither hears, nor heeds their famish’d
moan,
The glorious wine-cup owns
no base alloy.
Surrounded by a low, degraded train, |
90 |
His
fiendish laugh defiance bids to pain;
He hugs the cup—more
dear than friends to him—
Nor sees stern ruin from the goblet rise,
Nor flames of hell careering
o’er the brim—
The lava flood that glads his bloodshot eyes |
95 |
Poisons
alike his body and his soul,
Till reason lies self-murder’d
in the bowl.
“It was a dark and fearful winter night,
Loud roar’d the tempest
round our hovel home;
Cold, hungry, wet, and weary was our plight,
|
100 |
And
still we listen’d for his step to come.
My poor sick mother!—’twas a piteous
sight
To see her shrink and shiver,
as our dome
Shook to the rattling blast; and to the door
She crept, to look along the bleak, black moor.
|
105 |
He
comes—he comes!—and, quivering all with
dread,
She spoke kind welcome to that sinful man.
His sole reply—‘Get
supper—give me bread!’
Then, with a sneer, he tauntingly began
To mock the want that stared
him in the face, |
110 |
Her
bitter sorrow, and his own disgrace. [Page
19]
“‘I have no money to procure you food,
No wood, no coal, to raise
a cheerful fire;
The madd’ning cup may warm your frozen blood—
We die, for lack of that
which you desire!’
|
115 |
She
ceased—erect one moment there he stood,
The foam upon his lip; with
fiendish ire
He seized a knife which glitter’d in his way,
And rush’d with fury on his helpless prey.
Then from a dusky nook I
fiercely sprung, |
120 |
The
strength of manhood in that single bound:
Around his bloated form
I tightly clung,
And headlong brought the murderer to the ground
We fell—his temples
struck the cold hearth-stone,
The blood gush’d forth—he
died without a moan! |
125 |
“Yes—by
my hand he died! one frantic cry
Of mortal anguish thrill’d
my madden’d brain,
Recalling sense and mem’ry. Desperately
I strove to raise my fallen
sire again,
And call’d upon my mother; but her eye |
130 |
Was
closed alike to sorrow, want, and pain.
Oh, what a night was that!—when all alone
I watch’d my dead beside the cold hearth-stone.
I thought myself a monster—that
the deed
To save my mother was too promptly done. |
135 |
I
could not see her gentle bosom bleed,
And quite forgot the father, in the son;
For her I mourn’d—for
her, through bitter years,
Pour’d forth my soul
in unavailing tears. “The
world approved the act; but on my soul
|
140 |
There
lay a gnawing consciousness of guilt,
A biting sense of crime, beyond control:
By my rash hand a father’s
blood was spilt,
And I abjured for aye the death-drugg’d bowl.
This is my tale of woe;
and if thou wilt |
145 |
Be warn’d
by me, the sparkling cup resign;
A serpent lurks within the ruby wine, [Page
20]
Guileful and strong as him
who erst betray’d
The world’s first parents in their bowers
of joy.
Let not the tempting draught
your soul pervade; |
150 |
It shines
to kill, and sparkles to destroy.
The drunkard’s sentence
has been seal’d above—
Exiled for ever from the
heaven of love!” |
|
Literary
Garland Life
in the Clearings
February 1847 (5:87-88) versus
the Bush 1853 |
|
The Nautical Philosophers
A Sketch from Life
|
|
Dear
merry reader, did you ever hear,
Whilst travelling on the
world’s wide beaten road,
The curious reasoning and opinions queer,
Of men, who never in their
lives bestowed
One hour on study,—whose existence seems |
5 |
A
thing of course, a practical delusion;
A day of frowning clouds, and sunny gleams,
Of pain and pleasure mixed
in strange confusion,
Who feel they move and breathe, they know not why—
Are born to eat, and drink,
and sleep and die. |
10 |
Who
judge internal from external things,
And will not look one inch
beyond their nose;
Who yet believe that angel forms have wings,
Because such shapes some
dirty sign post shows,
Though they such birds on earth have never seen,
|
15 |
The
painter must have known the wondrous vision,
Or how could he array in blue and green,
The grinning ape that wakens
arts’ derision;
Yet seems to these deluded sons of sin,
The etherial type of spirits, rum and gin. |
20 |
It
was my chance upon a summer’s day,
Within a close packed omnibus,
to meet
Two of these learned Athenians, who betray [Page
21]
Their folly at each turning
of the street;
Who grin and stare, and talk in accents loud, |
25 |
Stunning
to right and left, each luckless neighbour,
To draw the attention of the gaping crowd
To their own ignorant and
rude behaviour,
Of taxes, kings, and ministers, they chatter,
And seldom know one word
about the matter. |
30 |
My
fellow travellers were a grade above
The hungry loafer, even
bawling treason:
Though constantly they sought their oar to shove
In each discourse, without
a rhyme or reason;
Giving unasked advice, opinions, broaching, |
35 |
Making
remarks, unawed by time or place,
On each man’s mental manor boldly poaching,
Then laughing in the angry
listener’s face—
Two of old Neptune’s rough, untutored sons,
Cracking coarse jokes, and
murdering viler puns. |
40 |
Stern time had furrowed with his iron plough,
The elder seaman’s
tanned and homely face,
Tracing strange hieroglyphics on a brow,
Peculiar to his bold amphibious
race,
Broad and erect, as though the sun and storm |
45 |
Against
its native strength their force had tried,
Failing to bend the stout herculean form,
That wind and wave from
boyhood had defied,—
A child in knowledge, though his hairs were white,
Called by his country not
to think, but fight. |
50 |
Such
was the elder of the twain. His mate
A youth, with scarce the
down upon his chin,
With ruddy cheeks and merry brow elate,
And oh, what depths of mischief
lurked within
The clear, blue, roguish, laughter-loving eye, |
55 |
From
right to left, in quick succession glancing,
Nodding to each fair damsel passing by,
Giving the lie to his own
wild romancing, [Page 22]
By the shrewd covert look, which told each man,
You may believe me, messmate—if
you can. |
60 |
Such
were the twain, whose portraits I would draw,
Digressing sadly in my rambling
rhyme,
But entertained with all I heard and saw,
Their features did impress
me at the time,
And by my sex protected, I enjoyed |
65 |
Their
varied traits of character to mark,
And the wild reckless nonsense that annoyed
Our living cargo, woke in
me no spark
Of vain resentment, for the men were but
What nature from the rugged
block had cut. |
70 |
At
Islington we made a sudden pause—
Which threw our seamen nose
and knees together,
And after laughing loudly at the cause,
They turned their conversation
on the weather;
‘For July, Jack, methinks ’tis wondrous
cold, |
75 |
These
wet, dull summers, scarce can warm a flea;
In my young days—for now I’m growing
old—
The dog-days were as hot
as days could be;
I’ve gathered cherries, red and ripe in May,
And helped the lassies ted
the new-mown hay. |
80 |
‘Each
year, methinks the sun’s been growing dimmer,
Winking upon us with a drowsy
eye,
As though he scorned upon the earth to glimmer,
Reserving all his good looks
for the sky;
The red-faced varlet!—I should like to know
|
85 |
What
we have done to merit his disdain;
We soon shall see in summer frost and snow,
For ever drench’d
with this eternal rain;
A ship might sail along this street of mud,
As well as did the ark on
Noah’s flood!’ |
90 |
‘I
never knew a letter in the book,’
Returned his comrade, with
a waggish leer; [Page 23]
‘Nor climbed a ladder in the skies to look,
But I can tell the cause,
though some may sneer.
The sun do ye see, is sinking fast in years, |
95 |
And
age, you know, the warmest blood will chill,
As time creeps on, more dull his lamp appears,
And so ’twill be,
till nature’s pulse stands still;
This is the reason why his rays are cold;
The sun, like you, old boy!
is growing old!’ |
100 |
Victoria
Magazine
1847 (1:88-89) |
|
|
|
O’er
memory’s glass I see his shadow flit,
Though he was gathered to the silent dust
Long years ago. A strange and wayward man,
That shunn’d companionship, and lived apart;
The leafy covert of the dark brown woods, |
5 |
The
gleamy lakes, hid in their gloomy depths,
Whose still, deep waters never knew the stroke
Of cleaving oar, or echoed to the sound
Of social life, contained for him the sum
Of human happiness. With dog and gun |
10 |
Day
after day he track’d the nimble deer
Through all the tangled mazes of the forest. |
|
Literary
Garland
Roughing It in
October 1847 (5:640) vthe
Bush 1852 |
|
The Maple Tree
A Canadian Song
|
|
Hail
to the pride of the forest—hail
To the maple, tall and green;
It yields a treasure which ne’er shall fail
While leaves on its boughs
are seen.
When
the moon shines bright, [Page 24] |
5 |
On
the wintry night,
And silvers the frozen snow;
And
echo dwells
On
the jingling bells
As the sleighs dart to and fro; |
10 |
Then
it brightens the mirth
Of
the social hearth
With its red and cheery glow.
Afar, ’mid the bosky forest shades,
It lifts its tall head on
high;
|
15 |
When
the crimson-tinted evening fades
From the glowing saffron
sky;
When
the sun’s last beams
Light
up woods and streams,
And brighten the gloom below; |
20 |
And
the deer springs by
With
his flashing eye,
And the shy, swift-footed doe;
And
the sad winds chide
In
the branches wide, |
25 |
With
a tender plaint of woe.
The Indian leans on its ragged trunk,
With the bow in his red
right-hand,
And mourns that his race, like a stream, has sunk
From the glorious forest
land.
|
30 |
But,
blythe and free,
The
maple-tree,
Still tosses to sun and air
Its
thousand arms,
While
in countless swarms |
35 |
The
wild bee revels there;
But
soon not a trace
Of
the red man’s race
Shall be found in the landscape fair. [Page
25]
When the snows of winter are melting fast,
|
40 |
And
the sap begins to rise,
And the biting breath of the frozen blast
Yields
to the spring’s soft sighs,
Then
away to the wood,
For
the maple, good, |
45 |
Shall
unlock its honied store;
And
boys and girls,
With their sunny curls,
Bring their vessels brimmming o’er
With
the luscious flood |
50 |
Of
the brave tree’s blood,
Into cauldrons deep to pour.
The blaze from the sugar-bush gleams red;
Far down in the forest dark,
A ruddy glow on the tree is shed,
|
55 |
That
lights up the rugged bark;
And
with merry shout,
The
busy rout
Watch the sap as it bubbles high;
And they talk of the cheer |
60 |
Of
the coming year,
And the jest and the song pass by;
And
brave tales of old
Round
the fire are told,
That kindle youth’s beaming eye. |
65 |
Hurrah!
for the sturdy maple-tree!
Long may its green branches
wave;
In native strength sublime and free,
Meet emblem for the brave.
May
the nation’s peace |
70 |
With
its growth increase,
And its worth be widely
spread;
For
it lifts not in vain
To
the sun and rain
Its tall, majestic head.
[Page 26] |
75 |
May
it grace our soil,
And
reward our toil,
Till the nation’s
heart is dead. |
|
Literary
Garland Roughing
It in
October 1847 (5:460) the
Bush 1852 |
|
|
|
The
future flower lies folded in the bud,—
Its beauty, colour, fragrance, graceful form,
Carefully shrouded in that tiny cell;
Till time and circumstance, and sun and shower,
Expand the embryo blossom—and it bursts |
5 |
Its
narrow cerements, lifts its blushing head,
Rejoicing in the light and dew of heaven.
But if the canker-worm lies coil’d around
The heart o’ the bud, the summer sun and dew
Visit in vain the sear’d and blighted flower.
|
10 |
Roughing
It in
the Bush 1852 |
|
|
|
By the
purple haze that lies
On the distant rocky height,
By the deep blue of the skies,
By the smoky amber light,
Through the forest arches streaming, |
5 |
Where
nature on her throne sits dreaming,
And the sun is scarcely gleaming
Through the cloudlet’s
snowy white,
Winter’s lovely herald greets us,
Ere the ice crown’d tyrant meets us. |
10 |
A
mellow softness fills the air—
No breeze on wanton wing
steals by,
To break the holy quiet there, [Page 27]
Or make the waters fret
and sigh,
Or the golden alders shiver, |
15 |
That
bend to kiss the placid river,
Flowing on and on for ever;
But the little waves seem
sleeping,
O’er the pebbles slowly
creeping,
That last night were flashing,
leaping, |
20 |
Driven
by the restless breeze,
In lines of foam beneath yon trees.
Dress’d in robes of gorgeous hue—
Brown and gold with crimson
blent,
The forest to the waters blue
|
25 |
Its
own enchanting tints has lent.
In their dark depths, life-like glowing,
We see a second forest growing,
Each pictur’d leaf and branch bestowing
A fairy grace on that twin
wood, |
30 |
Mirror’d
within the crystal flood.
’Tis pleasant now in forest shades—
The Indian hunter strings
his bow
To track, through dark entangled glades,
The antler’d deer
and bounding doe;
|
35 |
Or launch
at night his birch canoe,
To spear the finny tribes
that dwell
On sandy bank, in weedy cell,
Or pool the fisher knows
right well—
Seen by the red and livid glow |
40 |
Of pine-torch
at his vessel’s bow.
This dreamy Indian summer-day
Attunes the soul to tender
sadness:
We love, but joy not in the ray—
It is not summer’s
fervid gladness,
|
45 |
But
a melancholy glory
Hov’ring brightly
round decay,
Like swan that sings her own sad story, [Page
28]
Ere she floats in death
away.
The day declines. What splendid dyes,
|
50 |
In
flicker’d waves of crimson driven,
Float o’er the saffron sea, that lies
Glowing within the western
heaven!
Ah, it is a peerless even!
See, the broad red sun has set, |
55 |
But
his rays are quivering yet
Through nature’s veil of violet,
Streaming bright o’er lake and hill;
But earth and forest lie so still—
We start, and check the rising tear, |
60 |
| ’Tis
beauty sleeping on her bier. |
|
Life
in the Clearings
versus the Bush 1853 |
|
|
|
“I
DARE not think—I cannot pray;
To name the name of God
were sin:
No grief of mine can wash away
The consciousness of guilt
within.
The stain of blood is on my hand, |
5 |
The
curse of Cain is on my brow;
I see that ghastly phantom stand
Between me and the sunshine
now!
That mocking face still haunts my dreams,
That blood-shot eye that
never sleeps, |
10 |
In night
and darkness—oh, it gleams,
Like red-hot steel—but
never weeps!
And still it bends its burning gaze
On mine, till drops of terror
start
From my hot brow, and hell’s fierce blaze
|
15 |
Is
kindled in my brain and heart.
I long for death, yet dare not die,
Though life is now a weary
curse; [Page 29]
But oh, that dread eternity
May bring a punishment far
worse!” |
20 |
Life
in the Clearings
versus the Bush 1853 |
|
|
|
The
inspiration which by God is given,
Born of the light, like light belongs to heaven;
The eagle soaring to the noon of day,
Meets with unblenching gaze the solar ray,
His light of life, and, basking in its sheen, |
5 |
Sweeps
on strong wing along the blue serene.
The inky billows of the storm may rise,
And roll a gloom of terror through the skies,
Onward and upward still he proudly cleaves,
And far below the murky vapour leaves; |
10 |
The
thunders crashing through the shadows dun,
Vainly impede his progress to the sun;
Sailing through heaven’s wide space on pinions
free,
He only feels the present Deity,
The thrilling ecstasy absorbs his sight, |
15 |
| And
bathes his spirit in the fount of light. [Page
30] |
|
Canadian
Monthly
and National Review
April 1872 (1:353) |
|
