CANADIAN MELODIES.
Toronto:
HART & RIDDELL
1893
[Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada, in the year of our Lord,
one thousand eight hundred and ninety three, by George E. Merkley,
in the office of the Minister of Agriculture.]
DEDICATION.
——
TO ONE WHOM CANADIANS EVERYWHERE
HOLD IN
GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE,
HIS EXCELLENCY THE MARQUIS OF LORNE,
THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED.
Nam neque chorda sonum reddit quem vult manus et meus,
Poscentique gravem persaepe remittit acutum;
Nec semper feriet quodcunque minabitur arcus.
—Horace.
NO apology is made for bringing this volume before the public. Several of the poems it contains were mere attempts to relieve the monotonous routine of college life; many of them were written under foreign skies, and this will account for that lack of national spirit which the title of the volume might seem to imply. They have all been written hastily, and with frequent interruptions, so that no time was left for refining or amplifying. These remarks are not made to forestall criticism. Those who look with a jealous eye to the honor of English literature, are bound to pass what judgment they please upon every intruder into the groves of Parnassus, regardless of any extenuating circumstances which may be brought forth by way of palliation.
The dearth of national literature in Canada is to be deplored; and whatever may have a tendency to stimulate activity in this line ought not to be discouraged. The history of Canada has a poetic background. Our people are by nature inclined to literature, as may be seen from the high character of our home journals and from the large importation of foreign books and magazines. Yet our national literature is meagre, compared with that of other countries whose advantages have not been superior to our own. Are not the pearly whiteness of our skies, the placid loveliness of our lakes, the lonely majesty of our forests, as well as the heroic struggles of our ancestors for the flag which they so dearly loved, fit themes for poetic inspiration and for minstrel reverie? It is true that we look to the Mother Country for our models; but did not the Greek colonies produce a literature worthy to be compared to that of Athens in her glory?
It is hoped that these remarks may not appear presumptuous; and as the prisoner whose case is hopeless appeals to the mercy of the court in order to ameliorate his condition, so the writer of these verses lays aside his pen, promising to impose no further upon public sentiment.
North Williamsburg, Ont.
Page 45, Stanza v., line 3:
“But Grief with o’erwhelming power.”
Page 48, Stanza vi., line 3:
“waves’ wild motion.”
Page 62, Stanza xi., line 1:
“Uprose the sun in heaven’s dim vault slowly.”
IN the lone ancient pines of the Northland I stood,
When the sun-tinted eaves of the sky were aglow,
And I heard, from the soul of that vast solitude,
Dim notes from a Harp that broke mournfully low;
Oh sweet was the spell which that melody threw,
Till it seemed like the voice of a loved one that’s gone,—
Then I knew thee, dear Harp of my Country, I knew
The spirit that breathed in thy low plaintive tone!
Then hushed were thy numbers, and heavy and chill
Was the silence that fell o’er the powerless soul;
Yet soft as the tears which the night dews instill,
And sweet as the dirges when mermaids condole;
Then I strove to recall that sad tone, but in vain,
When anon the vast woods, now all lonely and gray,
Returned the dim notes, and I caught but the strain,
As the last trembling echo died slowly away.
ON a wild cliff that rears its bold crest to the sky
I stood when the Storm-king was raging on high;
Dark lowered the tempest that spread o’er his brow,
And like reeds in the wind the tall crags seemed to bow.
But he soon passed away with his storm banners furled,
And a sun-tide of glory burst forth o’er the world,
While around the dark East, ere the dayspring’s decline,
Curved the bright bow of peace with its promise divine.
Beneath the broad arch in the valley below
Lay the home of the rich, lay the cot of the low;
There in beauty secluded the hamlet arose,
And the churchyard beside lay in quiet repose.
There the aged were waiting in life’s sunset tide;
And the young, they were there in the springtime of pride,
And the fair, whose soft cheek, with its beauty untold,
Bore the seal of the grave on its delicate mould.
There was Misery’s tear, there was Gladness and Mirth,
There was Grief that bowed low at the desolate hearth,—
But the bright bow rose high up to heaven above,
And clasped all beneath in its ardor of love.
And I thought, O sweet emblem of glory and grace,
Of a Love that clasps all in its fervent embrace;—
Or the sunshine of life, or the gloom of the pall,
The living, the dead, it encircles them all.
IN the land of the sun—in that deep fervent clime,
Where Beauty forever doth smile,
Though the ripened fruit falls, yet the tree in its prime
Is bearing fresh flowers the while!