Susanna Moodie
The Maple-Tree
HAIL to the pride of the forest—hail
To the maple, tall and green!
It yields a treasure which ne’er shall fail
While leaves on its boughs are seen.
When the moon shines bright
On the wintry night,
And silvers the frozen snow,
And echo dwells
On the jingling bells
As the sleighs dart to and fro,
Then it brightens the mirth
Of the social hearth
With its red and cheery glow.
Afar, ’mid the bosky forest shades,
It lifts its tall head on high,
When the crimson-tinted evening fades
From the glowing saffron sky;
When the sun’s last beams
Light up woods and streams,
And brighten the gloom below;
And the deer springs by
With his flashing eye,
And the shy, swift-footed doe;
And the sad winds chide
In the branches wide,
With a tender plaint of woe.
The Indian leans on its rugged trunk,
With the bow in his red right-hand,
And mourns that his race, like a stream, has sunk
From the glorious forest land.
But, blithe and free,
The maple-tree,
Still tosses to sun and air
Its thousand arms,
While in countless swarms
The wild bee revels there;
But soon not a trace
Of the red-man’s race
Shall be found in the landscape fair.
When the snows of winter are melting fast,
And the sap begins to rise,
And the biting breath of the frozen blast
Yields to the spring’s soft sighs,
Then away to the wood,
For the maple good
Shall unseal its honeyed store;
And boys and girls,
With their sunny curls,
Bring their vessels brimming o’er
With the luscious flood
Of the brave tree’s blood,
Into caldrons deep to pour.
The blaze from the sugar-bush gleams red;
Far down in the forest dark
A ruddy glow on the trees is shed,
That lights up their rugged bark;
And with merry shout
The busy rout
Watch the sap as it bubbles high;
And they talk of the cheer
Of the coming year,
And the jest and the song pass by;
And brave tales of old
Round the fire are told,
That kindle youth’s beaming eye.
Hurrah! for the sturdy maple-tree!
Long may its green branch wave
In native strength, sublime and free,
Meet emblem for the brave.
May the nation’s peace
With its growth increase,
And its worth be widely spread;
For it lifts not in vain
To the sun and rain
Its tall, majestic head.
May it grace our soil,
And reward our toil,
While the nation’s day is sped!
The Fisherman’s Light
THE air is still, the night is dark,
No ripple breaks the dusky tide;
From isle to isle the fisher’s bark,
Like fairy meteor, seems to glide,—
Now lost in shade, now flashing bright;
On sleeping wave and forest tree,
We hail with joy the ruddy light,
Which far into the darksome night
Shines red and cheerily.
With spear high poised and steady hand,
The centre of that fiery ray,
Behold the skilful fisher stand,
Prepared to strike the finny prey.
“Now, now!” the shaft has sped below,—
Transfixed the shining prize we see;
On swiftly glides the birch canoe,
The woods send back the long halloo
In echoes loud, and cheerily!
Around yon bluff, whose pine crest hides
The noisy rapids from our sight,
Another bark! another glides!
Red spirits of the murky night!
The bosom of the silent stream
With mimic stars is dotted free;
The tall woods lighten in the beam,
Through darkness shining cheerily.