Читать книгу A Cyclopædia of Canadian Biography - Various - Страница 2
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Оглавление“Who will be king I do not know,
But I’ll be D’Arcy of Dunmow.”
Falconbridge, William Glenholme
Le Pan, Frederick Nicholas D’Orr
“In social haunts the ever welcome guest,
So generous, noble, and of portly mien;
‘One of a thousand’ has been well expressed—
No finer type of gentleman was seen.”
Morson, Walter Augustus Ormsby
La Mothe, Guillaume Jean Baptiste
Say, Kingston, tell us where is Evan?
Thy bard o’ pure poetic leaven!
And is he still amang the livin’?
Or plumed supernal,
Has taen a jink and aff to heaven,
There sing eternal!
Or if within your bounds you find him,
A’ bruised and broken, skilfu’ bind him;
Or sick, or sair, O! carefu’ mind him,
Thy darling chiel!
And dinna lat him look behind him
Until he’s weel.
But if he’s gane, ah, wae’s to me!
His like we never mair shall see,—
Nae servile, whinging coof was he,
Led by a string,
But noble, gen’rous, fearless, free,
His sang he’d sing.
Hech, sirs! we badly could bide loss him,
For should this world vindictive toss him.
Or ony hizzie dare to boss him.
Clean gyte he’d set her;
The deil himsel’, he daur’dna cross him,
Faith, he ken’d better!
But wink at fraud, or wrong the nation,
E’en gowd, nor place, ’twas nae temptation
To sic a chiel,—
He’d shortly settle their oration,
And drub them weel.
Or let them say’t, be’t high or low,
Auld Scotia ever met the foe,
That laid her in the dust fu’ low,
Right at them see him!
Professor George still rues the blow
MacColl did gie him.
Does Falsehood let her bloodhounds slip,
Crack goes his castigating whip,
With patriot scorn!
Macaulay laid upon his hip.
Amidst the corn.
Does English critic meanly itch,
To cast old Ossian in the ditch,
And trail his laurels through the pitch
Of mind benighted;
Our bardie gies his lugs a twitch
And sees it righted.
In a’ this warld, there’s no a skellum,
Nor silly self-conceited blellum,
But Evan, lad, wad bravely tell ’em
The honest truth;
E’en if he kend that they should fell ’im
Withouten ruth.
Ye feathered things in mournfu’ tune,
Come join my waesome, doleful croon;
Ye dogs that bay the silver moon,
Your sorrow show it;
And a’ ye tearfu’ starns aboon,
Bewail our poet.
What though this grasping world, and hard,
May barely grant him just reward,
Still shall his genius blissful starred,
Effulgent shine,
And endless ages praise the bard
Of fair Loch Fyne.
“’Tis true our province faces heavy odds
Of regulars but fifteen hundred men
To guard a frontier of a thousand miles;
Of volunteers what aidance we can draw
From seventy thousand widely scattered souls.
A meagre showing ’gainst the enemy’s,
If numbers be the test. But odds lie not
In numbers only, but in spirit too—
Witness the might of England’s little isle!
And what made England great will keep her so—
The free soul and the valour of her sons;
And what exalts her will sustain you now,
If you contain her courage and her faith.
So not the odds so much are to be feared
As private disaffection, treachery—
Those openers of the door to enemies—
And the poor crouching spirit that gives way
Ere it is forced to yield.”
For his steadfast strength and courage
In a dark and evil time,
When the Golden Rule was treason,
And to feed the hungry, crime.
For the poor slave’s hope and refuge,
When the hound was on his track,
And saint and sinner, state and church,
Joined hands to send him back.
Blessings upon him!—What he did
For each sad, suffering one,
Chained, hunted, scourged and bleeding,
Unto our Lord was done.
Secretary of the Convention in 1833,
which formed the American Anti-Slavery Society.
No, friend Ross! thou art not old;
A heart so true, so kind, so bold,
As in thy bosom throbs to-day,
Never! never! will decay.
Some I know, but half thy years,
Are quite deaf to all that cheers;
They are dumb when they should speak,
And blind to all the poor and weak.
There are none I know, in sooth,
Who part so slowly with their youth,
As men like thee, who take delight
In helping others to live right.
Lucretia Jenks.
Rhode Island, 22, 11mo., 1885.
“In peace and cheerful hope I wait,
On life’s last verge quite free from fears,
And watch the opening of the gate,
Which leads to the eternal years.”
“Seek the best where’er ’tis found,
On Christian earth or pagan ground.”
“God speed the stalwart pioneer!
Give strength to thy strong right hand!
And aid thee in thy brave intent
To clear and till the land.
’Tis men like thee that make us proud
Of the stubborn Saxon race
And while old England bears such fruit
We’ll pluck up heart of grace.”
Cuthbert, Edward Octavian J. A.
Each office of the social hour
To noble manners, as the flower
And native growth of noble mind.
Bentley, George Whitefield Wheelock
Cowperthwaite, Humphrey Pickard
Lachapelle, Emmanuel Persillier
Voyez venir la horde meurtrière ...
Voyez venir les bourreaux de trente-huit!
Ils ont lancé la torche incendiaire
Contre nos toîts dans l’ombre de la nuit!
Chœur .
Serrons nos rangs, luttons contre l’orage ...
Soyons unis, vaillants comme autrefois!
Courons, courons arracher à l’outrage
Nos saints autels, notre langue et nos lois!
II.
O Liberté qu’insulte leur audace!
C’est en ton nom qu’on veut nous égorger! ...
Fille du ciel, protège notre race ...
Accorde-nous l’honneur de te venger!
Serrons nos rangs, etc., etc.
III.
Vaincre ou mourir! fut le grand cri de guerre
Que nos aïeux ont cent fois répété ...
Vaincre ou mourir! ... Au sein de l’Angleterre
Qu’il retentisse! ... il sera respecté!
Serrons nos rangs, etc., etc.
I.
Entendez-vous ces cris de rage?
L’aigle du nord, vainqueur là-bas,
Vient assouvir sur ce rivage
La mort qui le pousse aux combats!
Marchons! sa haine héréditaire
Nous vaudra de nouveaux lauriers ...
Pour nos autels, pour nos foyers
Soyons un peuple militaire!
Chœur .
Ce bruit sourd qu’apporte le vent,
C’est la voix du canon qui tonne! ...
A la baïonnette .. en avant!
Pressons le pas; la charge sonne!
Pour chasser les envahisseurs
Soyons chasseurs! Soyons chasseurs!
II.
Dans la paix vous trouviez des charmes,
O vous, qui révez le bonheur!
Mais, Dieu le veut! l’appel aux armes
Nous guide au sentier de l’honneur ...
Amis, nous sommes de ces races
Que la peur ne flétrit jamais!
Anglo-Saxons, Normands Français,
De nos aïeux suivons les traces!
Chœur .
Ce bruit sourd, etc., etc.
III.
Gloire à toi, jeunesse intrépide,
A toi le poste du danger;
Déjà ton cœur bat, plus rapide,
Du noble espoir de nous venger!
La paix énervait ton courage ...
Méprisant un lâche repos,
Tu l’as compris, les vrais héros,
Eclairs, jaillissent de l’orage!
Chœur .
Ce bruit sourd, etc., etc.
IV.
L’Américain ne fera guère
Dans nos hameaux un long séjour;
Nos pères l’ont vaincu naguère
Leurs enfants le battront un jour!
Fils d’Albion, fils de la France,
On veut en vain vous asservir!
Soyons soldats! plutôt mourir
Que de perdre l’indépendance!
She prepared to depart
From dear old Scotland’s shore;
For well she knew,
That its mountains blue,
Her eyes should behold no more.
But when duty called,
No danger appalled
That heart so devoted and true.
She had left, for the truth,
The sweet manse of her youth,
And now bade her country adieu.
In weakness and pain,
O’er the dark, stormy main,
She came to this old fortress town;
Where, in slow decay,
She wasted away,
My faithful Jeanie Brown.
But severe though her pain,
She did not complain;
For it taught her, she told us, to see
More clearly the woe,
In the regions below,
From which the redeemed are set free.
By St. Lawrence’s side,
As he rolls, in his pride,
To the great Atlantic down,
By a walnut’s shade,
The dear dust we laid
Of my sweet Jeanie Brown.
And now she sleeps,
Where the green wave sweeps
Past the ocean’s river’s shore;
But I’ll meet her again,
In that blessed domain,
Where the weary part no more.
Oh, sea, had’st thou no power to save,
Could’st thou not raise that glorious face;
Nor let thy suffocating breath,
That heaven-born life of song erase;
Nor calm that wild heart unto death.
Oh, cold, cold wave, that pressed her cheek,
I hear thy murmuring undertone.
For ages wilt thou sob and moan,
In vain repentance o’er thy deed
The howling winds shall lash thy breast,
And zephyrs mourn around thy shore,
And murmur all thy rocks along;
And thou, who stilled the voice of song,
Thy deep great heart shall know no rest—
Shall know no peace for evermore.
Ah! wad that he was here the nicht,
Whase tongue was like a faerie lute!
But vain the wish: McGee! thy might
Lies low in death—thy voice is mute.
He’s gane, the noblest o’ us a’—
Aboon a’ care o’ warldly fame;
An’ wha se proud as he to ca’
Our Canada his hame?
The gentle maple weeps an’ waves
Aboon our patriot-statesman’s heed;
But if we prize the licht he gave,
We’ll bury feuds of race and creed.
For this he wrocht, for this he died;
An’ for the luve we bear his name,
Let’s live as brithers, side by side,
In Canada, our hame.
Hewson, Charles Wentworth Upham
Evanturel, Francis Eugene Alfred
Masson, Louis François Roderique
Desaulniers, François Sévère Lesieur
Labelle, François Xavier Antoine
Drolet, Jacques François Gaspard
Roberts, Charles George Douglas
Surely I have seen the majesty and wonder,
Beauty, might, and splendor, of the soul of song;
Surely I have felt the spell that lifts asunder
Soul from body, when lips faint and thought is strong.
Lowly I wait the song upon my lips conferred
The deep-eyed Night drew down to comfort him,
And lifted her great lids, and mourned for him.
All the darkness shuddered and fled back.
We all are made heavy of heart, we weep with thee, sore with thy sorrow;
The sea to its utmost part, the night from the dusk to the morrow.
And mystery of loveliness lay bare
Before him; all the limitless blue sea
Brightening with laughter many a league around.
Wind wrinkled, etc.
Crimson swims the sun-set over far Pelorus,
Burning crimson tops its frowning crest of pine;
Purple sleeps the shore, and floats the wave before us,
Eachwhere from the oar-stroke eddying warm like wine.
Saint-Cyr, Dominique Napoleon Deshayes
Genest, Laurent Ubalde Archibalde
Here, single-handed, in the bush, I battled on for years;
My heart sometimes buoyed up with hope; sometimes bowed down with fears.
I had misfortunes not a few, e’en from the very first;
But take them altogether, “Bright,” thy death’s the very worst.
How can I ever clear the land? How can I drag the wheat?
How can I keep my credit good? How can my children eat?
Hurrah! for the grand old forest land,
Where freedom spreads her pinion;
Hurrah with me, for the maple tree,
Hurrah! for the new Dominion.
She is sitting alone
On the old grey stone
With her Bible in her lap.
Her years are o’er three score and ten,
And her eyes are waxing dim,
But the page is bright
With a living light,
And her heart leaps up to Him
Who pours the mystic harmony
Which the soul can only hear,
She is not alone
On the old grey stone,
Though no earthly friend is near.
Wandering spirit of the flowers.
Down from the blue the sun has driven,
And stands between the earth and heaven,
In robes of smouldering flame;
A smoking cloud before him hung,
A mystic veil, for which no tongue
Of earth can find a name;
And o’er him bends the vault of blue;
With shadowy faces looking through
The azure deep profound;
The stillness of eternity,
A glory and a mystery,
Encompass him around.
The air is thick with golden haze,
The woods are in a dreamy maze,
The earth enchanted seems.
Have we not left the realms of care
And entered in the regions fair,
We see in blissful dreams?
Now morn is ascending from out the dark sea,
A light crimson veil hanging o’er her;
The lark leaves her nest on the bonny green lea,
And flutters aloft to adore her.
And, oh, how the living beams revel and leap!
In purple and gold to enfold her;
And how the wild cataract roused on the steep,
Is shouting with joy to behold her.
From hand to hand the ripened fruit went round,
And rural sports a pleased acceptance found;
The youthful fiddler, on his three-legged stool,
Fancied himself, at least, an Ole Bull;
Some easy bumpkin, seated on the floor,
Hunted the slipper till his ribs were sore;
Some chose the graceful waltz, or lively reel,
While deeper heads the chess-battalions wheel.
Old grey-beards felt the glow of youth revive,
Old matrons smiled upon the human hive;
Where life’s rare nectar, fit for gods to sip,
In forfeit-kisses, passed from lip to lip.
A joy from my soul’s departed,
A bliss from my heart is flown,
As weary, weary-hearted,
I wander alone, alone;
The night wind sadly sigheth
A withering, wild refrain;
And my heart within me dieth,
For the light in the window-pane.
The stars overhead are shining,
As brightly as e’er they shone,
As heartless, sad, repining,
I wander alone, alone,
A sudden flash comes streaming,
And flickers adown the lane;
But no more for me is gleaming
The light in the window-pane.
The voices that pass me are cheerful,
Men laugh as the night winds moan;
They cannot tell how fearful
’Tis to wander alone, alone;
For them with each night’s returning,
Life singeth its tenderest strain;
Where the beacon of love is burning
The light in the window-pane.
Oh, sorrow, beyond all sorrows,
To which human life is prone;
Without thee, through all the to-morrows
To wander alone, alone!
Oh, dark deserted dwelling,
Where hope like a lamb was slain,
No voice from thy lone wails welling,
No light in thy window-pane!
Bergeron, Joseph Gédéon Horace
Gagnon, Charles Antoine Ernest
Vallee, Thomas Evariste Arthur
McConville, Joseph Norbet Alfred
Desaulniers, Denis Benjamin William
Coursol, Charles Joseph Quesnel
Casavant, Joseph Claver & Samuel
d’Orsonnens, Louis Gustave d’Odet
Cockburn, George Ralph Richardson
Caron, Joseph Philippe Rene Adolphe
Duplessis, Louis Theodule Neree LeNoblet
Duchesnay, Henri Jules Juchereau
Hark! hark! the iron tongue of time
Clangs forth a hundred years,
And Stadacona on her heights
Sits shedding mournful tears!
Oh! spirits fled, oh! heroes dead,
Oh! ye were slain for me,
And I shall never cease to weep,
Ah! Wolfe, brave soul for thee.
Again the foe are made to know
The force of British steel;
Montgomery and his comrades brave
Fall ’neath the cannon’s peal.
Sudden she sprang upon her feet,
With wild dishevelled hair—
“What are those sounds I hear so sweet
Upon the trembling air?
“The frowning Citadel afar
Is all ablaze with light,
Awake the slumbering night.”
Then on she sped, with airy flight,
Across the historic Plains,
And there beheld a splendid sight—
Valor with beauty reigns.
Where fearless Carleton stood at bay
A hundred years ago,
Under the gallant Strange’s sway
They still defy the foe.
“My sons! my sons! I see ye now,
Filled with the ancient fires,
Your manly features flashing forth
The spirit of your sires!
“Yet here, surrounded by the flower
Of Canada’s fair dames,
Ye are as gentle in these bowers
As brave amidst war’s flames.
“Long may ye live to tell the tale
Transmitted to your mind,
And should again your country call
Like valor she will find.”
Commandant! we rise from our graves to-night,
On the Centennial of the glorious fight.
At midnight, just one hundred years ago,
We soldiers fought and beat the daring foe;
And kept our dear old flag aloft, unfurled,
Against the armies of the Western world.
Although our bodies now should be decayed,
At this, our visit, be not sore dismayed;
Glad are we to see our fortress still defended,
By Canadians, French and British blended,
But Colonel, now I’ll tell you, why we’ve risen,
From out of the bosom of the earth’s cold prison ——
We ask of you to pay us one tribute,
By firing from these heights, one last salute.
’Tis Hugh McQuarters, and his comrades brave,
To-night have risen from their glorious grave ——
To you we owe our standard still unfurled,
Yet flaunts aloft defiance to the world
God grant in danger’s hour we prove as true,
In duty’s path, as nobly brave as you.
This night we pass, in revel, dance and song,
The weary hours you watched so well and long.
’Mid storm and tempest met the battle shock,
Beneath the shadow of the beetling rock;
When foemen found their winding sheet of snow,
Where broad St. Lawrence wintry waters flow.
Yes! once again those echoes shall awake,
In thunders, for our ancient comrades’ sake;
The midnight clouds by battle bolts be riven,
Response like Frontenac’s may yet be given
If foeman’s foot our sacred soil shall tread.
We seek not history’s bloody page to turn,
For us no boastful words aggressive burn,
Forgotten, few, but undismayed we stand,
The guardians of this young Canadian land.
Oh, blessed peace! thy gentle pinions spread,
Until all our battle flags be furl’d,
In the poet’s federation of the world.
For us will dawn no new centennial day ——
Our very memories will have passed away,
Our beating hearts be still, our bodies dust;
Our joys and sorrows o’er, our swords but rust.
Your gallant deeds will live in history’s page,
In fire side stories, told to youth by age;
But sacred writ still warns us yet again,
How soldier’s science and his valour’s vain
Unless the Lord of Hosts the city keep
The mighty tremble and the watchmen sleep,
Return grim soldiers to your silent home
Where we, when duty’s done, will also come.
Some are while careful of their own affairs,
And when successfully amassing wealth,
Who oft times will withdraw as if by stealth,
To render good to others unawares.
Well known to them the haunts of poverty,
Clothed are the naked, and the hungry fed,
Oft take they place beside the patient’s bed,
To cheer sad hours; to soothe keen agony.
These are earth’s salt—they labor with a mind,
Distress relieving, lessening human woe;
In all their actions earnest, gentle, kind,
Leaving sweet impress whereso’er they go.
Theirs Heaven’s reward; a crown upon each brow,
Warm hearted Drysdale ! such a man art thou!
