Montreal Vindicator - 1828 - December - Poems in Early Canadian Newspapers

December

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December 12, 1828. Volume 1, No. 1.
The following verses, supposed to be from the Pen of Thomas Moore, Esq. are in allusion to the letters of the Duke of Newcastle and Lord Kenyon, on the subject of Catholic Emancipation, which have lately been given to the public in the Newspapers.
Write On, Write On A Ballad Tune—“Sleep on, Sleep on, my Kathleen dear” From the Times
Write on, write on, ye Barons dear,
Ye Dukes write hard and fast;
The boon we’ve sought through many a year,
Your quills will bring at last.
One letter more, N—wc—tle, pen,	5
To match Lord K—ny—n’s two.
And more than Ireland’s host of men
One brace of Peers will do.
Write on, write on, &c.
Sure, never, since the precious use	10
Of pen and ink began,
Did letters, writ by fools, produce
Such signal good to man.
While intellect, ’mong high and low,
Is marching on, they say,	15
Give me the Dukes and Lords, that go,
Like Crabs, the other way.
Write on, write on, &c.
Ev’n now I feel the coming light;
Ev’n now—could folly lure	20
My Lord M—nt—shel, too, to write,
Emancipation’s sure.
By geese (we read in history)
Old Rome was saved from ill,
And now, to quills of geese, we see	25
Old Rome indebted still.
Write on, write on, &c.
Write, write, my Lords, nor stoop to style,
Nor beat for sense about,—
Things, little worth a noble’s while,	30
You’re better far without.
Oh ne’er, since asses spoke of yore,
Such miracles were done,
For, write but four such letters more,
And Freedom’s cause is won!	35

December 12, 1828. Volume 1, No. 1.
The Blighted Heart
There is not on the pages which reveal
Our sum of anguish, in the Book of Fate,
A pang severer than the pain we feel
When Friendship is deceiv’d or Love meet hate;
When warm affection coldly is reprov’d,	5
Or hopeless misery denounc’d by lips we lov’d.

December 12, 1828. Volume 1, No. 1.
Epigram From the Greek Anthology By the Rev. W. Shepherd
If, at the bottom of the cask, Be left of wine a little flask, It soon grows acid:—so when man, Living thro’ Life’s most lengthened span, His joys all drain’d or turn’d to tears,	5
Sinks to the lees of fourscore years, And sees approach Death’s darksome hour— No wonder if he’s somewhat sour!

December 12, 1828. Volume 1, No. 1.
Hope
Thou guest from heaven,
Who cometh on life’s heavy hour
Like sun of even
Upon the dark retiring shower—
Hail to thy gentle power!	5
Where is thy dwelling?
Not surely in the human breast:
All care repelling,
Thou wouldst make life a land of rest
And man forever blest.	10
Though oft we find thee,
In journeying onward, thou dost flee;
And none can bind thee
With gold, with mystic witchery,
Or gayest revelry.	15
When stars are beaming
Upon the still and folded flower,
And men are dreaming
Of dearly valued wealth and power:
Then is thy chosen hour.	20
When morn is coming
In gold upon the heaving sea,
And thought is roaming
On all the lovely things that be—
Then, then thou com’st to me.	25
And like that morning
To lonely mariner far at sea,
Is thy returning,
When in a lov’d one’s form I see
Thy beauteous symmetry.	30
W.F.H.

December 12, 1828. Volume 1, No. 1.
My Irish Home By Adam Kidd
While o’er the billow’s heaving breast
Our bark does slowly glide,
Each lingering look is backward east,
Along the curling tide:
And still I think some happier day	5
May teach me not to roam,
But bless me with the smiles so gay
That cheered my Irish home.
Yet Erin dear, thy green-clad hills,
Recede too fast from view,	10
While now each breeze the canvas fills
That bears me far from you;
And oh! I stand upon the deck,
To hear the rustling foam,
That half conveys my sorrows back,	15
To my dear Irish home.
And now I watch thy mountains high,
Above the ocean’s brim,
In graceful beauty touch the sky,
Through closing night-shades dim,	20
Till every vista disappears,
And lost in evening’s gloom,
The twinkling star of night that cheers
My much loved Irish home.

December 12, 1828. Volume 1, No. 1.
Erin Ma Vourneen By Thomas Moore
When the pure soul of honour shall cease to inspire thee,
And kind hospitality leave thy gay shore,
And the nations that know thee shall cease to admire thee,
Then, Erin ma Vourneen! I’ll love thee no more!
When the trumpet of fame shall cease to proclaim thee,	5
Of heroes the nurse as in ages of yore;
And the muse, and the records of genius disclaim thee,
Then, Erin ma Vourneen! I’ll love thee no more!
When thy brave sons shall cease to be generous and witty,
And cease to be loved by the fair they adore,	10
And thy daughters shall cease to be virtuous and pretty,
Then, Erin ma Vourneen! I’ll love thee no more!

December 16, 1828. Volume 1, No. 2.
I’d Be A Brunswicker;? A new ballad to be sung at the Brunswick Anniversary Dinner, October 14, 1828. Air—“I’d be a Butterfly.”
I’d be a Brunswicker, famed as a fool,
First in the throng where the silly ones meet;
Listening to every contemptible tool,
And ready to run where the bell-weathers bleat!
I’d never enter the Liberal School,	5
I’d trample freedom under my feet;—
I’d be a Brunswicker famed as a fool,
But first in the field where the bigoted meet.
I’d be a Brunswicker, I’d be a Brunswicker,
First in the field where the bigoted meet!	10
Oh, could I handle the arms of a Yeoman,
Carbine and blunderbuss, bullets and all,
Stoutly I’d fight, if I had for a foeman
A Papist who’d got neither powder nor ball!
I’d make my broth of the blood of a “Roman,”	15
I’d grind for bread his bones great and small;
I’d be a Brunswicker armed as a Yeoman,
With gore dropping sabre, and death-striking ball.
I’d be a Brunswicker, I’d be a Brunswicker,
Proud of my sabre and death striking ball!	20
What though you tell me a Christian should ever
Shrink from embruing his hands so in blood;
Surely in this Anti-Popish endeavour,
A Churchman of England should shed a whole flood;
Some wiley infidels try to dissever	25
Church from the state—tumbling both in the mud!
But I’d be a Brunswicker, toasting for ever
Tithes, Church, and King in a bowl full of blood.
I’d be a Brunswicker, I’d be a Brunswicker,
Toasting the tithes even “knee-deep” in blood!	30

December 16, 1828. Volume 1, No. 2.
Blue Banners with a Green Border A New Ballad Air,—“All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border.”
March, march, Brydges and Winchelsea!
Why don’t ye Brunswickers march in good order?
March, march, Well’s “of the bloody knee!”
All the Blue Banners have got a green border!
Many a logger-head	5
Thinks of the day with dread,
Crazed and amazed at his own undertaking;
But having roused the game,
On they must go for shame,
Flogged by a rod of their own clever making!	10
March, march, &c.
Come from Eastwell, where the rabbits were smother’d!
Come too from Howletts’ cold griping domain!
Come from the Hatch of the Catholic-Mother’d!
Come from the Beresford bog of Coleraine!—	15
Come from each lurking den,
All “Hale and Corner” men,
Soon you’ll run back in disgrace and disorder;
Kent shall exulting say,
That was her proudest day	20
When the Blue Bonnets put on the Green Border!
March, march, &c.

December 16, 1828. Volume 1, No. 2.
Stanzas on a Lady
She was a thing of the morn—with soft calm
Of Summer evening in her pensive air:
Her smile came o’er the gazer’s heart like a balm,
To sooth away all sorrow save despair;
Her radiant brow scarce wore a trace of care—	5
A sunny lake where imaged you might trace,
Of hope and memory all that’s bright and fair,
Where no rude breath of Passion came to chase,
Like winds from Summer wave, its heaven from sweet face.
As one who looks on landscapes beautiful,	10
Will feel their spirit all his soul pervade;
E’en as the heart grows stiller by the lull
Of falling waters, when the winds are laid;
So he who gaz’d upon this heavenly maid
Imbibed a sweetness never felt before:	15
Oh! when with her through Autumn fields I’ve stray’d,
A brighter hue the ling’ring wild flowers wore,
And sweeter was the song the small bird warbled o’er!
Then came consumption, with her languid moods,
Her soothing whispers, and her dreams that seek	20
To nurse themselves in silent solitudes.
She came with hectic glow and wasted cheek,
And still the maiden pined, more wan and weak,
’Till her declining loveliness each day
Pulled like the second bow; yet would she speak	25
The words of hope, e’en while she pass’d away
Amidst the closing clouds, and faded ray by ray!
She died i’ the bud of being, in the spring—
The time of flowers, and songs, and balmy air;
’Mid opening blossoms she was with’ring,	30
But thus ’twas ever with the good and fair,
The lov’d of heav’n; ere yet the hand of care
Upon the snowy brow bath set his seal,
Or Time’s hoar frost came down to blanch the hair,
They fade away; and ’scape what others feel,	35
The pangs that pass not by—the wounds that never heal.
They laid her in the robes that wrap the dead,
So beautiful is rest ye scarce might deem,
From form so fair the gentle spirit fled,
But only lapp’d in some Elysian dream;	40
And still the glory of a vanished beam,
The lingering halo of a parted ray
Shed o’er her lonely sleep its latest gleam;
Like evening’s rose light, when the summer day
Hath fled o’er sea and shore, and faded away.	45
J.M.

December 16, 1828. Volume 1, No. 2.
From Giudiccioni’s Sonnet to the City of Rome “Degna nutrice di le chiare genti.”
Nurse of the mighty! who in ancient time
Filled thee with glory, and the world with fears—
Once of the favouring gods the home sublime!
Now the abode of unavailing tears,
How can I see thee of thy honours reft,	5
And hear thy sighs, nor feel my heart o’erflow!
Can I behold thee dark and joyless left,
And not partake my bleeding country’s wo?
Majestic in thy fall!—though fallen so low
My bosom thrills at thy still hallowed name!	10
E’en at thy ruins I adorning bow—
Ah! had I then beheld thee in thy fame—
When as a Queen, thy flowing locks around
The Laurels of a conquered world were bound!

December 19, 1828. Volume 1, No. 3.
Song By the Rev. Charles Wolfe
Go forger me,—why should sorrow
O’er that brow a shadow fling?
Go forget me—and to-morrow
Brightly smile and sweetly sing.
Smile—though I may not be near thee:	5
Sing, though I shall never hear thee:
May thy soul with pleasure shine,
Lasting as the gloom of mine.
Like the sun, thy presence glowing,
Clothes the MEANEST things in light;	10
And when thou, like him are going,
LOVELIEST objects fade in night.
All things look’d so bright about thee,
That they nothing seem without thee,
By that pure and lucid mind	15
Earthly things were too refined.
Go, thou vision wildly gleaming,
Softly on my soul that fell;
Go, for me no longer beaming—
Hope and Beauty, fare ye well!	20
Go, and all that once delighted
Take and leave me all benighted;
Glory’s burning—generous swell,
Fancy and the Poet’s shell.

December 19, 1828. Volume 1, No. 3.
Erin By Thomas Moore
When Erin first rose from the dark swelling flood, God blessed the green island and saw it was good; The em’rald of Europe, it sparkled and shone, In the ring of the world the most precious stone.
In her sun, in her soil, in her station thrice blest,	5
With her back towards Britain, her face to the West, Erin stands proudly insular on her steep shore, And strikes her high harp midst the Ocean’s deep roar.
But when its soft tones seem to mourn and to weep,
The dark chain of silence is thrown o’er the deep;*	10
At the thought of the past the tears gush from her eyes, And the pulse of the heart makes her white bosom rise.
O! sons of great Erin lament o’er the time, When religion was war, and our country a crime; When man in God’s image invented his plan,	15
And moulded their God in the image of Man.
When the interest of state wrought the general woe, The stranger a friend, and the native a foe; While the mother rejoiced o’er the children opprest, And elapsed the invader more close to her breast.	20
When with pale for the body and pale for the soul, Church and state joined in compact to conquer the whole; And as Shannon was stained with Milesian blood, Eyed each other askance and pronounced it was good.
By the groans that ascend from your fore-father’s grave,	25
For their country thus left to the brute and the slave, Drive the demon of Bigotry home to his den, And where Britain made brutes now let Erin make men.
Let thy sons like the leaves of the shamrock unite, A partition of sects from one footstock of right:	30
Give each his full share of the earth and the sky, Nor fatten the slave where the serpent would die.
Alas! for poor Erin that some still are seen, Who would die the grass red from their hatred green. Yet, oh! when you’re up and they’re down, let them live,	35
Then yield them that mercy which they would not give.
Arm of Erin! be strong, but be gentle as brave! And uplifted to strike, be still ready to save! Nor the feelings of vengeance presume to defile The cause of, or men of, the Emerald Isle.	40
The cause it is good and the men they are true, And the Green shall outlive both the Orange and Blue! And the triumphs of Erin her daughters shall share, With the full swelling chest and their fair flowing hair.
Their bosom heaves high for the worthy and brave,	45
But no coward shall rest in that soft-swelling wave; Man of Erin! awake, and make haste to the blest, Rise—arch of the Ocean—and queen of the West.
* The chain of silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of a celebrated contention for precedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn’s palace at Almhaim, where the attending Bards, anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of hostilities, shook the chain of silence, and flung themselves among the ranks. See also the “Ode to Gaul, the Son of Morni,” in Miss Brook’s Reliques of Irish Poetry. [back]

December 19, 1828. Volume 1, No. 3.
Home
The heart that feels as I have felt When forced from kindred hearts to sever; The idol Home, where youth has dwelt, To leave—and leave, perhaps, for ever: Although no sigh may tell its woe	5
Will throb with sorrow’s deepest throe.
A Father’s burning hand I wrung; I kiss’d a Mother’s pallid cheek, But not a word escaped my tongue— I felt too much—too much to speak:	10
That parting hour—that sad adieu, Worlds would not tempt me to renew.
My foot is on a foreign strand; But let me wander where I will, Can ne’er forget my native land;	15
My heart is with my kindred still: My dreams by night, my thoughts by day, Are of the loved ones far away.

December 23, 1828. Volume 1, No. 4.
The Sea-Nymph’s Song
The sun is resting upon the deep, His beaming eye half closed in sleep:— Spread your gold on the waves of even, Brighter by far than the crimson heaven; Pour your gold on the deep-blue wave,	5
And then in its burnish’d beauty lave.
Twilight is spreading o’er the sky, The shades of night are passing by; Awfully grand they sweep along, And, pausing, lour at our sportive song:—	10
Rest on thy wave, thou pensive thing! Lonely as night is the strain we sing.
Seek the depths of the unknown sea— Soft our song for the dead shall be;— The brave who sunk in the mountain wave;	15
The fair who rest in a stormy grave; Sea-flowers strew on their lowly sleep, And over the brave and the beautiful weep.
Raise the coral rocks from their bed, Rear a tomb o’er each fair-haired head;—	20
Mother, nor sisters, nor sire, could save The beautiful forms from the foaming wave, To raise on their dust the speaking tomb, Or rear fair flowers round their final home.
But night is resting upon the wave—	25
At rest are the forms of the young and the brave; The dolphin is slumbering in our caves, And we afloat on the midnight waves; And many a star, from the shadowy west, Has sunk in its ocean-bed to rest.	30
W.F.H.

December 23, 1828. Volume 1, No. 4.
Lights and Shades
The gloomiest day hath gleams of light,
The darkest wave hath bright foam near it;
And twinkles through the cloudiest night
Some solitary star to cheer it.
The gloomiest soul is not all gloom;	5
The saddest heart is not all sadness;
And sweetly o’er the darkest doom
There shines some lingering beam of gladness.
Despair is never quite despair;
Nor life, nor death, the future closes;	10
And round the shadowy brow of Care,
Will Hope and Fancy twine their roses.

December 23, 1828. Volume 1, No. 4.
A Portrait
So erring and so frail, and yet so fair! So passing beautiful, and yet so lost To every touch of moral beauty’s charms! So fascinating and so false! so high To Heaven’s best gifts—so low in virtue’s scale!	5
It seems to me a mystery beyond All feasible solution, that just Heaven Should thus emblazon infamy and gild The last, worst vices of our nature’s mould As if in mockery of all worth and deck	10
Crime past redemption with seraphic robe. Oh, thou wert lovely, and thine eye could melt A cynic’s bosom into love of thee: Form, feature, bearing, converse each and all That appertained unto thee was so full	15
Of winning sweetness—floating loveliness, Aerial grace and power of intellect, That I had worshipped thee as one of those Who came, bright fleeting visitants, from Heaven To light this dark, cold world—had I not stolen	20
Away and wept and prayed, ay, prayed for thee! Oh, in my dreams beneath the twilight Heaven, When beauty smiled on fatling glory’s charms, Lovely unspeakably, I oft have felt Bright creatures breathing o’er my raptured heart,	25
And flashing past my spirit’s searching eye— And I have longed to clasp them and unfold The unreal mouldings of my working brain— The beautiful creations of my thought;— But they fled from me and my heart relapsed	30
From its high swelling unto earth again. But when I saw thee in thy might and power Of loveliness—so fair, the airs that blew Upon thee caught a beauty and a bloom Visible—thou wert to me so like the forms	35
The fancy of my faith had dreamed of bliss— So innocent thy look of eloquence, So rich the gems that studded o’er thy mind— I could but love thee—love thee as the saint Adores the Virgin Mother, when he sees	40
The heaven of heavens unfolding in her smile, And thou—thou wert—e’en then thou wert a thing Beyond all imaginings of wanton guilt; A painted sepulchore—an angle shape Inspired by fiends! alas! alas!	45
The golden fruit was fair and beautiful, But poisonous ashes festered in its core; The rainbow gleamed in glory, but it shone Upon dark lurid clouds whose sable skirts It glided but to show how blackness dwelt	50
Beneath the storm-charged folds. Replete with guile, And subtility, and guilt, and death, thou wert, A lovely ruin! Heaven o’er shadowing hell!

December 23, 1828. Volume 1, No. 4.
Oh never believe, love, the music that floats
So light from my harp is a truant to thee,
In the heart there are deeper and holier notes
Than e’er to the harp string were uttered by me
And like the wild numbers that silently lay	5
Till morn’s magic finger awoke them to song,
Thy thought to my soul is the life lighting ray
And music and rapture flow swiftly along.
And while the light flowrets I carelessly twine
That fancy has pluck’d in her perishing bower,	10
’Tis only to cover the heart and the shrine
Where thine image still hallows each happier hour.
And never, believe, love, thy brightness they fling
They can win from my spirit a moment of rest,
It is only the touch of the nightingale’s wing
As she hurries along to the leaf she loves best.

December 26, 1828. Volume 1, No. 5.
What is a Friend?
What is a friend? A being who,
Through all the changes time may bring,
E’en though our joys may be but few,
Will still around us fondly cling:
Who in youth’s bright and brilliant morn	5
A dearer charm to pleasure lends;
Whose smile can sweeten and adorn
Each gift that heaven so kindly sends:
Whose approbation onward cheers
Our souls in manhood’s busy strife;	10
Through scenes of toil, and woe, and tears,
Gilding the darkest shades of life;
Who shares our joy, if fortune smiles,
And shrinks not should she darkly low’r,
But, with a hallowed balm, beguiles	15
The anguish of each trying hour:
And, if we win a wreathe from fame,
Whose heart with joy and pride will thrill;
And e’en through guilt, and sin, and shame,
Will shield, excuse, and love us still:	20
And when by death we’re called away
From all our joys and sorrows here,
Will often to our mem’ry pay
The tribute of a burning tear.

December 30, 1828. Volume 1, No. 6.
Serenade *Tune—“And has she then failed in her truth?”*
The moon on the mountain is bright,
The stars sit in the glory on high;
And the lake, from its surface of light,
Throws back the bright gems of the sky.
Come, love, come—see the token-star on high.	5
The flower has folded its leaves,
At rest is the wing if the dove;—
Not a zephyr yon bright mirror heaves,
And all things are sleeping—but Love.
Haste, love, haste—’t is the chosen hour of love.	10
Haste, haste;—for I see o’er the lake
The lover’s light skiff glide along;
And the sounds on the night-air awake
Are the lover’s guitar with his song;—
Fly, love, fly—’Tis thy faithful lover’s song.	15
W.F.H.

December 30, 1828. Volume 1, No. 6.
The following stanzas, written at the beautiful Moravian burying-ground, in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, are sweet and touching:
When in the shadow of the tomb
This heart shall rest,
O, lay me where Spring flowrets bloom
On earth’s bright breast!
O, ne’er in vaulted chambers lay	5
My lifeless form!
Seek not, of such mean, worthless prey,
To cheat the worm,
In this sweet city of the dead
I fain would sleep,	10
Where flowers may deck my narrow bed,
And night dews weep.
But raise not the sepulchral stone
To mark the spot;
Enough, if by thy heart alone	15
’Tis ne’er forgot.

December 30, 1828. Volume 1, No. 6.
A Mother’s Love *From the “Siege of Valentia,” a Dramatic Poem by Mrs. Hemans.*
Gonzalez
“We have but
To bow the head in silence, when Heaven’s voice Calls back the thing we love.
Elwina
Love! love!—there are soft smiles and gentle words, And there are faces skillful to put on	5
The look we trust in—and ’tis mockery all; —A faithless mist; a desert-vapour wearing The brightness of clear waters, thus to cheat The thirst that semblance kindled!—There is none In all this cold and hollow world, no fount	10
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within A mother’s heart. It is with pride, wherewith To his fair son the father’s eye doth turn, Watching his growth. Aye, on the boy he looks, The bright clad creature springing in his path,	15
But as the heir of his great name, the young And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long Shall bear his trophies well,—And this is love! —This is man’s love!—What marvel?—you ne’er made Your breast the pillow of his infancy,	20
While to the fullness of your heart’s glad heavings His fair cheek rose and fell: and his bright hair Waved softly to your breath,—You ne’er kept watch Beside him, till the last pale star had set And morn, all dazzling, as in triumph, broke	25
On your dim weary eye; not yours the face Which early faded through fond care of him, Hung o’er his sleep, and, duly as Heaven’s light, Was there to greet his wakening! You ne’er smooth’d His couch, ne’r sung him to his rosy rest,	30
Caught his last whisper when his voice from yours Had learn’d soft utterance; press’d your lips to his When fever parch’d it; hush’d his wayward cries With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love! No! these are woman’s tasks!—In these her youth,	35
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart, Steal from her all unmark’d!—My boys! my boys! Hath vain affection borne with all for this? —Why were ye given me?”