



Produced by Al Haines










VERSES

OF

FEELING AND FANCY


BY

Wm. M. MacKeracher




MONTREAL:

W. DRYSDALE & CO.,

PUBLISHERS AND BOOKSELLERS.




Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada in the year of Our
Lord one thousand eight hundred and ninety by Wm. Drysdale & Co., in
the office of the Minister of Agriculture.




DEDICATED

TO

MY FATHER.




  Motive

  Worthless, the man who works--he knows not why,
    Whom naught inspires to his puny plan,
  Who seeming plays his part instinctively:
    Soulless, and falsely designated "man."

  Wicked, who works from wish of worldly gain,--
    His soul surrendered to th'accursed lust
  Of pleasure partial, briefly to remain,
    Of treasure liable to moth and rust.

  Foolish and vain is he whose motive--fame,
    Ruled by desire of honor and renown;
  And fondly courting Fortune's fickle Dame,--
    To-day she smiles, to-morrow she will frown.

  But virtuous, noble, prompted from above,
    Preluding now the perfect life again,
  Is he, whose only inspiration, love,
    Love to his God and to his fellow-men.

  For love is naught but God's own nature, given,
    In partial measure, down to man to come;
  The sole delight of earth, the key to heaven;
    Of all the virtues, centre, source, and sum.




  The Old Year.

  The old year is dying,
  Its last hour is hieing
    Over the verge;
  The night winds are plying,
  And are mournfully sighing
    Its funeral dirge.

  And now, in its even,
  While its spirit is riven
    Through the bright zone,
  Beyond the heaven
  To whence it was given--
    To the unknown.

  Its sadness in ending
  Like a cloud is descending
    Over my soul,
  And the thoughts that are pending
  With the low winds are blending,
    Helping their dole.

  A year of existence
  Has passed to the distance
    Ne'er to return:
  To the right was resistance,
  From duty desistance,
    Nor would I learn.

  But duty neglected
  And virtue rejected
    We may amend;
  Then why be dejected?--
  So sorely affected?
    Whence does it tend?

  Is it that pleasure
  In liberal measure
    I have not known?
  Ah! rapturous pleasure
  In memory I treasure,
    But--it is flown.

  Opportunity wasted,
  Though far we have passed it,
    We may retrieve;
  But beakers once tasted
  Of bliss while they lasted
    Bitterness leave.




  A Summer Evening Scene in Chateauguay

  WRITTEN IN MONTREAL.

  Often, when the sun is sinking
    O'er the mountain's glowing crest,
  When the earth and heaven are linking
    In that bond of peaceful rest;
  Then, the weary city spurning,
    On this grand repose I gaze,
  And my mind, in fancy turning,
    Dwells on scenes of childhood's days.

  And I float upon the river
    At the selfsame time of day,
  When the sparkling waters quiver
    'Neath the slanting evening ray.
  Day's harsh memories forsaking
    With its jarring and its jest,
  For the soul is but awaking
    As the day is lulled to rest.

  Glimpse of even's glory getting
    As the summer sun serene,
  In his softened splendour setting,
    Gilds the spires of Ste. Martine;
  Glimmers through the silent bushes,
    Glances on the birchen stems;
  Casts perchance his fitful blushes
    On the paddle, dripping gems.

  And the hue of gold is deeper
    On the cornfields by the stream;
  And the sickle of the reaper
    Flashes brightly in his beam.
  And the fruits, of late commencing
    To indue their glowing tint,
  Richest beauty are enhancing
    As they catch his gentle glint.

  Now he greets the gaudy dresses
    Of the lightsome Gallic maids,
  Rivals through their raven tresses
    Eyes of jet beneath their braids
  As the peasant party gathers
    Gaily for the sportive dance,
  As of old have done their fathers
    In the sunny vales of France.

  But the night is falling thicker,
    And the twilight soon will cease,
  So I paddle on the quicker
    Past where Beauty reigns with Peace;
  Where the little brooks deliver
    Water laughing in its glee,
  Or the murky English River
    Mingles with the Chateauguay.




  Lines written on a Sabbath Morning.

  The snow lies pure and peaceful on the ground,
    Serenely smiles the azure sky o'erhead:
  The Sabbath spirit dwells