William Kirby
The Marquis of Lorne’s Visit to the North-West
WHAT went ye to the wilderness to see?
A shaking reed? Men in king’s houses dwelling?
A prophet? Yea, more than a prophet telling
Of lands new named for Christ—a gift in fee,
And heritage of millions yet to be.
Green prairies like an ocean swelling
From rise to set of sun—great rivers spelling
Their rugged names in Blackfoot and in Cree.
That went you forth to see, and saw it lie,
The glorious land reserved by God till now,
For England’s help in need—to drive the plough,
A thousand miles on end—till in the sky
The snowy mountains, from the plains upborne,
Bear on the proudest peak the name of Lorne.
At Spencer Grange
UPON the heights of Sillery one day,
Led by the dryad of the fairy wood,
A daughter of the land, as bright and good
As spring’s first daffodil, bade me survey
Wolfe’s cove, the gleaming city with array
Of walls and pinnacles, each in a hood
Of sunset glory, while the shining flood
Swept through the mountains far and far away.
And then the nearer landscape she recalls,
The grove, the Grange, Belle Borne’s romantic rill,
Which in a chain of silvery waterfalls
Ran down the cliff and vanished; but she still
Stands there to me. A memory will not fade—
Part of the glorious vision I surveyed.
From “The Sparrows”
SO sat I yesterday, with weary eyes
Looking at leafless trees and snow-swept plains,
And broad Ontario’s ice-encumbered sea.
My thoughts had wandered in a waking dream
Across the deep abyss of vanished years,
To that dear land I never saw again—
When suddenly a fluttering of wings
Shook the soft snow—a twittering of birds
Chirping a strange old note, but heard before
In English hedges and on roofs red-tiled,
Of cottage homes that looked on village greens!
An old familiar note! Who says the ear
Forgets a voice once heard? the eye, a charm?
The heart, affection’s touch, from man or woman?
Not mine at least! I knew my own birds’ language,
And recognised their little forms with joy.
A flock of English sparrows at my door,
With feathers ruffled in the cold north wind,
Claimed kinship with me—hospitality!—
Brown-coated things! Not for uncounted gold
Would I have made denial of their claims!
Five! six! ten! twenty! But I lost all count
In my great joy. Whence come I knew not; glad
They came to me, who loved them for the sake
Of that dear land at once both theirs and mine.
I ran to get the food I knew they liked,
Remembering how—a child—in frost and snow—
I used to scatter crumbs before the door,
And wheat in harvest gleaned, to feed the birds
Which left us not in winter, but made gay
The bleak, inclement season of the year.
The sparrows chirped and pecked while eyeing me
With little diamond glances, like old friends,
As round my feet they fluttered, hopped and fed,
In perfect confidence and void of fear.
Their forms, their notes, their pretty ways so strange,
Yet so familiar—like a rustic word
Learned in my childhood and not spoken since—
All, all came back to me! and as I looked
And listened—a thousand memories rose up,
Like a vast audience at the nation’s song!
Old England’s hills and dales of matchless charm,
Sweeping in lines of beauty, stood revealed:
Her fragrant lanes where woodbine trailed the hedge,
And little feet with mine ran side by side
As we plucked primroses, or marked the spot
Where blackbird, thrush or linnet reared its young,
While sang the cuckoo on the branching tree.
Those meadows, too! Who can forget them ever?
So green! with buttercups and daisies set,
Where skylarks nested and sprang up at dawn
To heaven’s top, singing their rapturous lay!
Those gentle rivers, not too large to grasp
By the strong swimmer of his native streams;
Those landward homes that breed the nation’s strength;
Those beaconed cliffs that watch her stormy seas,
Covered with ships that search all oceans round:
Those havens, marts, and high-built cities, full
Of work and wealth and men who rule the world!
All rose before me in supernal light,
As when beheld with childhood’s eyes of strength,
And stirred my soul with impulses divine.
My heart opened its depths—glad tears and sad
Mingled upon my cheek, which forty years’
Strange winds had fanned and heat and cold embrowned.
God’s hand is nearer than we think—a touch
Suffices to restore the dead; a word
Becomes a wonder of creative power.
The little sparrows in their rustic speech
Talking a tongue I knew—this message brought
From Christ, who spake it, merciful to man:
“Are not two sparrows for a farthing sold,
And not one falls without the Father’s leave?
Fear not, therefore! for of more value, ye,
Than many sparrows, yea, whose very hairs
Are numbered by the loving care of God.”
I blessed the little messengers who brought
These words of comfort to my lonely heart,
To teach me resignation, hope and peace.
Like children in a darkened room we cry,
Despairing of the light when ’tis most nigh....
The callow bird must wait its wings to fly,
And so must thou! God’s love is law in love,
Working in elements of moral strife
That will not yield obedience but with pain.
“Perfect through suffering.” Comprehend’st thou that?
Upon the cross who was it, dying, cried,
In the last agony that rends the soul:
“Eli! Eli! lama sabacthani!”
No other way! Christ, too, must drink that cup
Before His human life was made divine
And our redemption possible from sin!
Or if a gentler lesson thou would’st learn,
Dismayed at those tremendous mysteries,
Think of the birds, the lilies, all things He
Takes care of to the end: why not of thee?
But while their round of life is here complete,
Thine but begins! The law of laws is love,
That needs two worlds to perfect all of man,
And an eternity to teach God’s ways!...