BOOK VII.

O, Memory! What art thou? Whence thy power?

Thy wonders are displayed from hour to hour

Of my existence. By thy powerful aid

Sweet Childhood's scenes most truthfully are made

To pass before me in such vividness,

I stand amazed, and thy great skill confess!

By thy assistance, things long lost to view

Spring forth surprisingly — both fresh and new.

I travel back through more than thirty years,

With all their toils and pleasures, griefs and fears.

Go where I may, thou ever art with me,

As Counsellor and Friend, dear Memory!

Thy secret depths I would again explore,

And must draw largely ere my task be o'er.

Be thou no ignis fatuus to allure

Me from the paths of truth, nor it obscure,

While I attempt to paint the coming scenes,

Which COOPER passed through with such slender means,

‘ Tis early Spring-time, and the opening buds

Bestud the boughs of trees through all the woods.

The snow and frost remain till rather late;

But Sol's great power for this will compensate.

He, aided by soft winds and copious rain,

Will melt the snow, and break stern Winter's chain.

The Frost-King, thus so suddenly dethroned,

May vent his rage, as if a giant groaned;

Or muster scattered forces and come back

Once and again, to the repulsed attack!

And when he finds his efforts all in vain,

May hurl defiance on Spring's beauteous train;

And, from his region of eternal snow,

Send rude North winds to strike a deadly blow;

To nip the fairest blossoms in the bud,

And blast, in spite, the gardener's prospects good.

Yet One, Almighty, will his rage control;

His fiat has gone forth, “Let Seasons roll

In quick succession, while the Earth endures!”

And this, great benefits to us secures.

The birds begin to pair; the grass to spring;

And Maple sap is scarce worth gathering;

Yet, when it wo n't make sugar, some prepare

Syrup, and vinegar, of flavor rare.

On every hand the brightly green-robed trees

May hear their finery rustling in the breeze;

And pleased, like mortals, with their gay attire,

May feel a strong, vain-glorious desire

To have a glass in which to view their charms,

Or mark the effect of each rude blast's alarms.

Some, far more highly favored than the rest,

Have such a mirror as may suit them best.

Of these are they which grow beside a stream,

And, all day long, of their own beautv dream;

Or those that grace the margins of a lake,

Whose face reflects the grand display they make.

Ah, these imaginings are far from just;

Fair Nature would much rather sink to dust

Than thus dishonor her great Maker's name!

And we, vain sinners, should be filled with shame,

To be so far behind in praises meet —

Neglecting duty that should still be sweet.

Up to this time our Emigrants contrived

To keep from debt, though they themselves deprived

Far, far too often, of substantial food —

Which, in the end, did them but little good.

Yet day by day they toiled with eagerness,

In hope that God would their joint efforts bless.

To build a barn of logs they now prepare;

This gives them much hard labor, and some care.

To put it up they call a “Raising Bee;”

And, wishful to prevent ebriety,

They buy no whisky; but, instead of it,

Have cakes and coffee, which are far more fit.

The work was gone through in true Bush-man style,

Although a few assumed a scornful smile,

And would, no doubt, have been well satisfied

To have the liquor-jug still by their side.

This job completed, Spring work next came on,

And, truly, there was plenty to be done!

The man from whom they bought their “Indian lease”

Had made brush fences, and there was no peace

From “breachy” cattle, breaking through with ease,

To eat the crops as often as they please!

To cut down trees, and split them into rails

For laying fence, is work which seldom fails

The new Bush farmer, who must ever be

Upon the move, and used to industry.

Such was their case; and. Oh! the aching limb,

And sinking heart, as prospects grew more dim!

Anon, the sun shoots down such powerful rays,

As seems to set the air almost a-blaze!

They felt the previous Summer very hot;

But that, through Winter's cold, was quite forgot.

Besides, as yet‘ twas Spring; then why this heat?

Their strength was small from lack of proper meat.

‘ Tis true, they did not want for daily bread;

But Bush-life should with stronger food be fed.

In lieu of tea, they used root sassafras

So much and often, that they all, alas!

Not only cleansed their moderate share of blood,

But thinned it far too much to do them good!

WILLIAM, especially, became so weak

He could scarce bear to work, or e'en to speak.

When he essayed to stoop, his back seemed broke;

And courage failed beneath the heavy stroke.

The different remedies which friends advised,

All failed to bring the health he so much prized.

His fond hopes crushed, he tried to bow his head,

Submissive to the will of Him who bled

For such poor sinners, on the “cursed tree;”

And found some comfort in his misery.

One day his spirits sank extremely low —

And Faith, herself, fled from him in his woe;

When, like a flash of lightning, to his mind

A passage came, sent by his FATHER kind!

“Fight the good fight of Faith,” with magic worth

Rang through his soul, and very soon gave birth

To a most lively, energetic Song,

On Christian Warfare — in which he was long.

I give the verses, with an earnest prayer

That all my Readers may their spirit share,

And seek for grace to help them still to fight

The “Fight of Faith,” as in their Maker's sight!