The snow-flakes slowly sifted In through each cranny and seam, But only the sunshine drifted Into the news-boy's dream.

For he dreamed of the brave to-morrows, His eager eyes should scan, When battling with wants and sorrows, He felt himself a Man.

He felt his heart grow bolder For the struggle and the strife, When shoulder joined to shoulder, In the battle-field of life.

And instead of the bare brown rafters, And the snowflakes sifting in, He saw in the glad hereafters, The home his hands should win.

The flowers that grew in its shadow, And the trees that drooped above; The low of the kine in the meadow, And the coo of the morning dove.

And dearer and more tender, He saw his mother there, As she knelt in the sunset splendour, To say the evening prayer.

His face--the sun had burned it, And his hands were rough and hard, But home, he had fairly earned it, And this was his reward!

The morning star's faint glimmer Stole into the garret forlorn, And touched the face of the dreamer With the light of a hope new-born.

Oh, ring harmonious voices Of New Year's welcoming bells!

For the very air rejoices.

Through all its sounding cells!

I greet ye! oh friends and neighbours The smith and the artizan; I share in your honest labours, A Canadian working-man.

To wield the axe or the hammer, To till the yielding soil, Enroll me under your banner, Oh Brotherhood of Toil!

Ring, bells of the brave to-morrows!

And bring the time more near: Ring out the wants and the sorrows, Ring in the glad New Year!

THE OLD CHURCH ON THE HILL.

Moss-grown, and venerable it stands, From the way-side dust and noise aloof, And the great elms stretch their sheltering hands To bless its grey old roof.

About it summer's greenery waves; The birds build fearless overhead; Its shadow falls among the graves; Around it sleep the dead.

The summer sunshine softly takes The chancel window's pictured gloom; The moonlight enters too, and makes The shadow of a tomb.

Along these aisles the bride hath pa.s.sed, And brightened, with her innocent grace.

The pensive twilight years have cast About the holy place.

They brought her here--a tiny maid, Unweeting any gain or loss, And on her baby forehead laid The symbol of the Cross.

And here they brought her once again, White-robed, and smiling as she slept; While lips, that trembled, breathed her name, And eyes that saw her wept.

And still, when sunset lights his fire Along the gold and crimsoned west, She sleeps beneath the shadowing spire, The cross upon her breast.

I watch it from my lonely cot, When stars shine o'er the hallowed ground, And think there is no sweeter spot, The whole wide earth around.

The Sabbath chimes there sink and swim Along the consecrated air, The benediction and the hymn, The voice of praise and prayer:

These mingle with the wind's free song, The hum of bees, the notes of birds, And make an anthem sweet and strong Of inarticulate words.

There let me rest, when I have found The peace of G.o.d, the immortal calm, Where still above my sleep profound, Goes up the Sabbath psalm.

THE BURNING OF CHICAGO.

Out of the west a voice--a shudder of horror and pity; Quivers along the pulses of all the winds that blow;-- Woe for the fallen queen, for the proud and beautiful city.

Out of the North a cry--lamentation and mourning and woe.

Dust and ashes and darkness her splendour and brightness cover, Like clouds above the glory of purple mountain peaks; She sits with her proud head bowed, and a mantle of blackness over-- She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks.

The city of gardens and palaces, stately and tall pavilions, Roofs flashing back the sunlight, music and gladness and mirth, Whose streets were full of the hum and roar of the toiling millions, Whose merchantmen were princes, and the honourable of the earth:

Whose traders came from the islands--from far off summer places, Bringing spices and pearls, and the furs and skins of beasts.

Men from the frozen North, and men with fierce dark faces, Full of the desert fire, and the untamed life of the East.

Treasures of gems and gold, of statues and flowers and fountains, Vases of onyx and jasper from Indian emperors sent; Pictures out of the heart of tropical sunlit mountains, Of rocks of porphyry piled at the gates of the Occident.

Dusk-brown sons of the forest, hunters of deer and of bison, And the almond-eyed child of the sun met in her busy streets, With waifs from the banks of the Indus, and the ancient river Pison-- Lands of the date and the palm, and the citron's h.o.a.rded sweets.

The surging tide of the prairie rolled its billows of blossom Against her mighty walls, and beat at her hundred gates; The riches of all the world were poured into her bosom, Kings were her mighty men, and lords, and potentates.

She sat in her place by the sea, and the swift-sailing ships obeyed her.

Full freighted with corn and wheat their purple sails unfurled, Far-off in the morning land, and the isles beyond the equator; Out of her heaped-up garners she scattered the bread of the world.

As her pride and her beauty were perfect, so desolation and mourning, Swift and sudden, and sure her utter destruction came, The heavens above were dark with the smoke of her awful burning, And the earth and the sea were lighted with the fierceness of her flame.

Behold oh, England! oh, Europe! and see is there any sorrow Like hers who sits in silence among her children slain, Oh, blackness of woe and ruin! can any future morrow Bring back to the shrouded city her glory and crown again!

Aye, subtle and wonderful links of human love and pity, Ye have bridged the sea of ruin, and spanned it with a span!

She shall rise again from her ashes and build a fairer city, With a larger faith in G.o.d, and the Brotherhood of Man,

THE LEGEND OF THE NEW YEAR.

I dreamed, and lo, I saw in my dream a beautiful gateway, Arched at the top, and crowned with turrets lance-windowed and olden, And sculptured in arabesque, all knotted and woven and spangled; A wonderful legend ran, in letters purple and golden Written in leaves and blossoms, inextricably intertangled, A legend I could not resolve, crowning the gate so stately.

Like statues carven and niched in the front of some old cathedral, Four angels stood each in his turret, immovable warders, The first with reverend locks snow-white, and a silver volume Of beard that twinkled with frost, and hung to the icicled borders That fringed his girdle beneath: ancient his look was, and solemn, Like a wrinkled and bearded saint blessing some worshipping bedral.

As one in a vision wrapped, with his staff he silently pointed To the golden legend written in glittering star-points under, Shining in crystal ferns, and translucent berries of holly.

Yet as I pondered the words of ineffable awe and wonder, A mist of rainbow brightness obscured them, and hid them wholly, While wrapt in his vision he stood, like a prophet anointed.

Divers, yet lovely the next, a white-armed, golden-haired maiden; Blue were her eyes and sweet, and her garments were lily-bordered; Her hands were full of flowers, and her eyes of innocent gladness, As the ranks of buds and blossoms, of bees and buds she ordered, Each in their several paths. Mine eyes were heavy with sadness, For I read not yet the legend with beauty and mystery laden.