Night comes, but he comes not! I fear
The treacherous ice; what do I hear?
Bells? nay, I am deceived again,—
’Tis but the ringing in my brain.
Oh how the wind goes shrieking past!
Was it a voice upon the blast?
A cry for aid? My God protect!
Preserve his life—his course direct!
How suddenly it has grown dark—
How very dark without—hush! hark!
’Tis but the creaking of the door;
It opens wide, and nothing more.
Then wind and snow came in; I thought
Some straggler food and shelter sought;
But more I feared, for fear is weak,
That some one came of him to speak:
To tell how long he braved the storm,
How long he kept his bosom warm
With thoughts of home, how long he cheered
His weary horse that plunged, and reared,
And wallowed through the drifted snow
Till daylight faded, and the glow
Of hope went out; how almost blind,
He peered around, below, behind,—
No road, no track, the very shore
All blotted out,—one struggle more,
It is thy last, perchance, brave heart!
O God! a reef! the masses part
Of snow and ice, and dark and deep
The waters lie in death-like sleep;
He sees too late the chasm yawn;
Sleigh, horse and driver, all are gone!
Father in heaven! It may be thus,
But thou art gracious,—pity us,
Save him, and me in mercy spare
What ’twould be worse than death to bear.
Hark! hark! am I deceived again?
Nay, ’tis no ringing in my brain;
My pulses leap—my bosom swells—
Thank God! it is, it is his bells!
PATRIOTIC POEMS
THE SURRENDER OF QUEBEC.
[Quebec is the oldest city in Canada, having been
founded by Champlain, in 1608, near the site of an
Indian village. It was taken from the French,
by the English, under General Wolfe, in 1759, after
a heroic defence by Montcalm. Both generals fell
on the battle-field, mortally wounded. In 1853
the Literary and Historical Society of Quebec offered
a prize medal for the best poem relating to the history
of Canada. Miss Johnson (then in her eighteenth
year) wrote the following, which took the prize.]
The orb of day upon his pathway pressed,
Beaming with splendor, toward the shining west,
Cast one long, lingering glance upon the scene,
Lit up the river and the forest green,
Left his last rays upon the lordly dome,
And deigned to smile upon the peasant’s home;
Then ’neath the western hills he sought repose,
And sank to rest as calmly as he rose:
Bright at the dawn of day, but brighter now,
When day had almost passed, and round her brow
Hung the expiring beams of dazzling light,
The certain presage of approaching night.
Slowly his gorgeous train, like him, withdrew,
Changing as they advanced in form and hue,
Until one lovely tint of fairest dye
Stole softly o’er the calm and cloudless sky;
Day, gently smiling, left her gleaming throne,
And evening fair came forth, and reigned alone.
The twinkling stars the azure vault adorned;
Like glistening gems, a glorious crown they formed,
And proudly sat in splendor pure and bright
Upon the pale and pensive brow of night;
While in the midst of all, with tranquil mien,
Mild Cynthia lent enchantment to the scene.
