Poems by Joseph Horatio Chant
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Brave soul, 'twere well if all the same would say,
The well-built house with walls of brick, or stone,
The gem is not this ode itself;
As the caged eagle neared the mountain range,
I know in part, but know not all,
Man is like God in miniature,
With purpose strong to do or die,
This world is but the shadow
My neighbor's farm and mine lie side by side,
O God, I am ashamed to die,
I stand to-day on higher ground
Two men, well versed in use of arms,
O beautiful sky of every hue;
Is brotherhood to flesh confined?
Buttercups and daisies growing everywhere,
Dear Canada, our native land,
Up to Dunbar our Cromwell went,
The yeoman lays aside his soil-stained smock,
Somewhere in the realms supernal
Father of Universal Man,
When presses hard my load of care,
'Tis well to have a goal in mind,
I fear not, my Father, the tempest's loud roar,
The air is chill with the frost of doubt,
From God's all bounteous hand descend
Every flower that decks the way,
Thy plan is best, though it may not agree
(Isaiah 33:16)
Every tear that dims the eye,
A painter, high in worldy fame,
When the French soldier from the field returned,
In gentle showers the rain descends,
O Thou, who art the source of joy and light,
Beneath the surface of a shallow lake,
Those men are deemed heroes who rush on the foe
The night of affliction, with its long hours of sadness,
"Thank God, we have kept the flag floating."--General White.
The fields lie bare before me now,
Our lives seem filled with things of little worth;
O Thou Eternal One, look down
The armies met on Marston Moor,
She brought her alabaster flask
Remembrance of the past will joy impart
The battleship its anchor weighs,
My lot on earth is not all mirth,
My old sweetheart is away to-day;
My pansy pets are sleeping well
My sweet primrose with thy open face,
I would not cherish a wish or thought
We strolled down by the river side,
Upon the "table-rock" I stand,
"Mamma, what noises do I hear?
Some men there are who stand so straight,
My greatest grief is not my own;
An artist skilled beyond the sons of men
A Prize Birthday Poem, 1885.
A group of mounted officers
The hills are clad in purple and in gold,
I saw her first when she was old,
A stately church by pious hands erected long ago,
Each human life with mysteries is replete;
Five hundred years have nearly passed away
The waters of the Big Bear creek
The winter through I lay asleep,
A grand stairway do these clouds appear
Looking o'er this written page,
The end we sought is not attained,
Some flowers are brighter far in hue
Feathery frost on the window-pane,
The grandest theme for tongue, or pen,
Heroic deeds in every age
The highest goal is not success,
Look down, ye Alleghenies, into the Conemaugh vale,
'Tis said, long since an angel came to earth,
Exquisite mosses, so lovely and green,
The leaf is faded, and decayed the flower,
Perfection ever is the price of toil.
The Shah Jehan sat with his much-loved wife,
This lovely lily, so pure and white,
True laureate of the Anglo-Saxon race,
In the courts of truth tread softly,
He loves not much who loves not honor more;
Doomed to decay are all things here;
As fought the Paladins of old,
The words we speak on the empty air,
O harass not a driven leaf,