"By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips "In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, "And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent lips, "Which had never been sigh'd on by any but mine!"

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG.

WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE.1

Et remigem cantus hortatur.

QUINTILIAN.

FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime

Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.

I wrote these words to an air which our boatmen sung to us frequently. The wind was so unfavourable that they were obliged to row all the way, and we were five days in descending the river from Kingston to Montreal, exposed to an intense sun during the day, and at night forced to take shelter from the dews in any miserable hut upon the banks that would receive us. But the magnificent scenery of the St. Lawrence repays all such difficulties.

Our voyageurs had good voices, and sung perfectly in tune together. The original words of the air, to which I adapted these stanzas, appeared to be a long, incoherent story, of which I could understand but little, from the barbarous pronunciation of the Canadians. It begins Dans mon chemin j'ai rencontré Deux cavaliers très-bien montés;

And the refrain to every verse was,

A l'ombre d'un bois je m'en vais jouer,

A l'ombre d'un bois je m'en vais danser.

I ventured to harmonise this air, and have published it. Without that charm which association gives to every little memorial of scenes or feelings that are past, the melody may, perhaps, be thought common and trifling; but I remember when we have entered, at sunset, upon one of those beautiful lakes, into which the St. Lawrence so grandly and unexpectedly opens, I have heard this simple air with a pleasure which the finest compositions of the first masters have never given me ;

Soon as the woods on shore look dim,
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn.1
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl?
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl;
But, when the wind blows off the shore,
Oh! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

Utawas' tide! this trembling moon

Shall see us float over thy surges soon.
Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers,
Oh, grant us cool heavens and favouring airs.
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast,
The Rapids are near, and the daylight's past.

and now there is not a note of it which does not recall to my memory the dip of our oars in the St. Lawrence, the flight of our boat down the Rapids, and all those new and fanciful impressions to which my heart was alive during the whole of this very interesting voyage.

The above stanzas are supposed to be sung by those voyageurs who go to the Grand Portage by the Utawas River. For an account of this wonderful undertaking, see Sir Alexander Mackenzie's General History of the Fur Trade, prefixed to his Journal.

"At the Rapid of St. Ann they are obliged to take out part, if not the whole, of their lading. It is from this spot the Canadians consider they take their departure, as it possesses the last church on the island, which is dedicated to the tutelar saint of voyagers.” — Mackenzie, General History of the Fur Trade.

GAZEL.

REMEMBEREST thou the hour we past,
That hour the happiest and the last?
Oh! not so sweet the Siha thorn

To summer bees, at break of morn,
Not half so sweet, through dale and dell,
To Camels' ears the tinkling bell,
As is the soothing memory

Of that one precious hour to me.

How can we live, so far apart?
Oh! why not rather, heart to heart,
United live and die-

Like those sweet birds, that fly together,
With feather always touching feather,
Link'd by a hook and eye!1

A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP.

(SPANISH AIR.)

"A TEMPLE to Friendship," said Laura, enchanted, "I'll build in this garden,—the thought is divine!”

Her temple was built, and she now only wanted

An image of Friendship to place on the shrine.

1 This will appear strange to an English reader, but it is literally translated from Abdallah's Persian, and the curious bird to which he alludes is the Juftak, of which I find the following account in Richardson: "A sort of bird, that is said to have but one wing; on the opposite side to which the male has a hook and the female a ring, so that, when they fly, they are fastened together."

The thought is taken from a song by Le Prieur, called "La Statue de l'Amitié."

She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her
A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent;
But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer
Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant.

"Oh! never," she cried, "could I think of enshrining "An image, whose looks are so joyless and dim ; — "But yon little god, upon roses reclining,

"We'll make, if you please, Sir, a Friendship of him.” So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove: "Farewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first

maiden

"Who came but for Friendship and took away Love."

FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER.
(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

FLOW on, thou shining river;

But, ere thou reach the sea,
Seek Ella's bower, and give her
The wreaths I fling o'er thee.
And tell her thus, if she'll be mine,
The current of our lives shall be,
With joys along their course to shine,
Like those sweet flowers on thee.

But if, in wand'ring thither,

Thou find'st she mocks my prayer,
Then leave those wreaths to wither

Upon the cold bank there;

And tell her thus, when youth is o'er,

Her lone and loveless charms shall be Thrown by upon life's weedy shore, `. Like those sweet flowers from thee.

ALL THAT'S BRIGHT MUST FADE. (INDIAN AIR.)

ALL that's bright must fade, —

The brightest still the fleetest;

All that's sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest !

Stars that shine and fall ;

The flower that drops in springing ;

These, alas! are types of all

To which our hearts are clinging.

All that's bright must fade,

The brightest still the fleetest

All that's sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest!

Who would seek or prize

Delights that end in aching?

Who would trust to ties

That every hour are breaking?

Better far to be

In utter darkness lying,

Than to be bless'd with light and see

That light for ever flying.