Verses of Feeling and Fancy   By: W. M. (William Mackay) MacKeracher (1871-1913)

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'accursèd 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.