Books: The Poetical Works of Mrs. Leprohon (Mrs. R.E. Mullins)
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Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon >> The Poetical Works of Mrs. Leprohon (Mrs. R.E. Mullins)
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10 Produced by Stan Goodman, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
This file was produced from images generously made available
by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions.
THE
POETICAL WORKS
OF
MRS. LEPROHON
(Miss R. E. Mullins)
INTRODUCTION.
When, in after ages, the literature of Canada comes to be written,
it is to be hoped that among the mighty sons and daughters of
genius now unknown, or as yet unborn, some room will be kept for
the brave and loving pioneers who "gave the people of their best,"
and sang the songs of duty and patriotism and hope, ere life in
our young land had ceased to be a struggle. With the growth of
wealth and the spread of prosperity, will come leisure for more
than material interests; and thus, in course of time, the author
who has something to say will find an audience, prepared by
culture and not too busy to listen to it. And, as supply is
generally commensurate with demand, there will then be a literary
class of corresponding merit. At least, something like this has
been the rule in the progress of nations. But if those who come
after, thus favored by circumstances, surpass their predecessors
in literary skill or power, not less deserving are the latter who,
with little prospect of reward, bore the burden and the heat of
the day. This early stage in a nation's literature has, indeed, an
interest and a value of its own, which only meet with due
appreciation from a judicious and grateful posterity. If it has
not the rich, warm splendor of the later morning, it has the
welcome promise of the dawn, and a tender beauty of its own.
In this band of pioneers Mrs. Leprohon must be conceded a
distinguished place. None of them has employed rare gifts of head
and heart to better purpose; none of them had a wider range of
sympathy; none of them did more willing service, with the purest
motives, in all good causes. And, it may be added, none of them
was more happy in attaining, during life, the admiration and
friendship of a large though select circle of every creed and race
among her compatriots. It is in order to place in the hands of
those who thus loved and honored her a memorial of what she was at
her best, intellectually and morally, that this little volume has
been prepared. It contains the emotional record of a blameless and
beautiful life, the outcome of a mind that thought no evil of any
one, but overflowed with loving kindness to all. Before pointing
out, however, what we consider the salient qualities in Mrs.
Leprohon's poetry, it may be well to give our readers a brief
sketch of her too short career.
Rosanna Eleanor Mullins was born in the city of Montreal in the
year 1832. It is almost unnecessary to state that she was educated
at the Convent of the Congregation of Notre Dame, so numerous are
her affectionate tributes to the memories of dear friends
associated with that institution. Long before her education was
completed, she had given evidence of no common literary ability.
She was, indeed, only fourteen years old when she made her
earliest essays in verse and prose. Before she had bid adieu to
the years and scenes of girlhood, she had already won a reputation
as a writer of considerable promise, and as long as Mr. John
Lovell conducted the _Literary Garland_, Miss Mullins was one of
his leading contributors. She continued to write for that
excellent magazine until lack of financial success compelled its
enterprising proprietor to suspend its publication. It was some
time before another such opportunity was given to the Canadian
votaries of the muses of reaching the cultivated public. In the
meanwhile, however, the subject of our sketch--who had, in 1851,
become the wife of Dr. J. L. Leprohon, a member of one of the most
distinguished Canadian families--was far from being idle. Some of
her productions she sent to the Boston _Pilot_, the faithful
representative in the United States of the land and the creed to
which Mrs. Leprohon was proud to belong. She was also a frequent
and welcome contributor to several of the Montreal journals. It is
a pleasing evidence of her gentle thoughtfulness for a class which
many persons in her position regard with indifference that she
wrote, year after year, the "News-boy's Address" for the _True
Witness_, the _Daily News_ and other newspapers. One of her most
pathetic poems, "The Death of the Pauper Child" may also be
mentioned as a striking instance of that sweet charity which
comprehended in its sisterly range the poor, the desolate and the
suffering. The _Journal of Education_, edited by the Hon. P. J. O.
Chauveau, himself an honor to Canadian Literature; the _Canadian
Illustrated News_, edited by Mr. John Lesperance, distinguished
both as a poet and a novelist; the _Saturday Reader_, the
_Hearthstone_, and other periodicals, both in Canada and
elsewhere, were always glad to number Mrs. Leprohon's productions
among their most attractive features. She had always a ready pen,
the result of a full heart and far-reaching sympathies, and,
therefore, was frequently asked to write on subjects of current
interest. Among her "occasional" poems; several of which are in
this volume, may be mentioned the touching stanzas on the
"Monument to the Irish Emigrants," those on the "Old Towers" at
the "Priest's Farm," those on the renewal of her vows by the Lady
Abbess of the Congregation of Notre Dame, the poem on the
"Recollect Church," and the address "To the Soldiers of Pius The
Ninth." One of her most important efforts of this kind was her
translation of the Cantata composed by M. Sempé on the occasion of
the visit of the Prince of Wales to Canada in 1860.
We have attempted such a classification of the poems as we thought
would best show the range of Mrs. Leprohon's powers. Under every
one of the headings which we have adopted the reader will find
something to profit and delight. The lover of nature will find
himself carried in fancy to the fairest or grandest of Canadian
scenes; he who loves to indulge in reveries of the past can with
her stand with Jacques Cartier on Mount Royal three centuries ago
and survey the mighty expanse of forest, destined one day to be
the home of a thriving people; those whose pleasure it is to read
of heroic deeds will hear her sing of ennobling courage and
fortitude that blenched not at death. But by many, we think, Mrs.
Leprohon will be most cherished as she tells in sweet and simple
rhyme of the tenderness of a mother's love, of a wife's devotion,
a husband's loyal trust, of the pious offices of the domestic
altar, of the parting by the death-bed that is not without hope,
of the loved and lost that yet are "not lost but only gone
before." To illustrate these varied characteristics by quotation
would demand far more, than our allotted space. We can, therefore,
only refer the reader to the book itself, confident that in its
pages he will find all that we have indicated and much more.
Just a word as to Mrs. Leprohon's prose writings. Though in this
sketch we have dwelt upon her work as a poet, it is as a writer of
fiction that she has won her most marked popular successes, that
she has reached the hearts of the two great communities of which
this province is composed. For no less than four of her most
elaborate tales have been translated into French; these are, _Ida
Beresford_, the _Manor House of Villerati, Antoinette de
Mirecourt,_ and _Armand Durand_. Besides these, she has written
_Florence FitzHarding, Eva Huntingdon, Clarence FitzClarence_ and
_Eveleen O'Donnell_. In the _Manor House of Villerai_ she has
described with a skilful pen the manners and customs of the
forefathers of the French Canadian people, such as they were at
the period of the great contest which changed the destinies of
Canada. In _Armand Durand_ we have a courageous struggle with
adverse fortune, which is at last crowned with success. The sad
consequences of secret marriage, unblessed by parental consent,
are unfolded in _Antoinette de Mirecourt,_ one of the finest of
Mrs. Leprohon's novels, and of which the French translation has
lately been honored by a new edition. Of her merits as a novelist
one of the ablest of French Canadian critics writes thus: "Gifted
with a deep knowledge of the human heart, she finds in domestic
life the subject of attractive pictures, full of delicacy and good
taste, which she dramatizes with remarkable power. Her charm lies,
not in any complication of intrigue or in problems hard to solve,
but in a skilful working out of details, in incidents which fix
the reader's attention, in the conception of her characters, in
the painting of personal traits, in purity of thought, in
sweetness of sentiment, in beauty of style, in the harmony of the
parts, and in the most scrupulous regard for morality." This is
high praise, and it comes from high authority. We will simply add
that, with a few necessary changes, it may also be applied to Mrs.
Leprohon's poems.
From this imperfect sketch of Mrs. Leprohon's literary life it
will be seen that she was no sluggard. But we would leave a wrong
impression if we gave it to be understood that all her time was
passed in the writing of either poems or tales. Far from it. They
constituted but one phase in a life nobly, yet unostentatiously,
consecrated to the duties of home, of society, of charity and of
religion. Mrs. Leprohon was much more than either a poet or a
novelist--she was, also, in the highest sense, a woman, a lady.
Had she never written a verse of poetry or a page of prose, she
would still have been lovingly remembered for what she was as
wife, as mother, as friend. It is, in a great part, because they
are associated with her in these more endearing aspects, that they
are the true mental and moral offspring of her very self, that
those who knew her will find in them so much to prize. Alas! these
and loving memories, that can scarce be separated from them, are
now all that is left of her. On the 20th of September, 1879, after
a tedious illness, endured with Christian resignation, she passed
away. She did not live to receive the reward that was her due on
earth, but that which is above is hers, and her works live after
her, and a memory that will not perish.
In conclusion, we will just allow ourselves to point out that, in
connection with her comparatively early death, there is a touching
interest attached to some of her poems, such, especially, as "The
Parting Soul to her Guardian Angel" and "The Voices of the Death
Chamber." In the former she says:
"Thy soft-breathed hopes with magic might
Have chased from my soul the shades of night.
Console the dear ones I part from now,
Who hang o'er my couch with pallid brow;
Tell them, we'll meet in yon shining sky,
And, Angel Guardian, I now can die."
And in the latter, which has all the vividness of an actual
death-scene, as the husband and children from whom she must part
are kneeling by the bed-side, the sufferer says:
"Oh! if earthly love could conquer
The mighty power of death,
_His_ love would stay the current
Of my failing strength and breath;
And that voice whose loving fondness
Has been my earthly stay
Could half tempt me from the voices
That are calling me away."
But at last they come nearer and sound louder, till they "drown
all sounds of mortal birth," and "in their wild triumphal
sweetness," lure her away from earth to Heaven.
SACRED POEMS
ABRAHAM'S SACRIFICE.
The noontide sun streamed brightly down
Moriah's mountain crest,
The golden blaze of his vivid rays
Tinged sacred Jordan's breast;
While towering palms and flowerets sweet,
Drooped low 'neath Syria's burning heat.
In the sunny glare of the sultry air
Toiled up the mountain side
The Patriarch sage in stately age,
And a youth in health's gay pride,
Bearing in eyes and in features fair
The stamp of his mother's beauty rare.
She had not known when one rosy dawn,
Ere they started on their way,
She had smoothed with care his clustering hair,
And knelt with him to pray,
That his father's hand and will alike
Were nerved at his young heart to strike.
The Heavenly Power that with such dower
Of love fills a mother's heart,
Ardent and pure, that can all endure,
Of her life itself a part,
Knew too well that love beyond all price
To ask of _her_ such a sacrifice.
Though the noble boy with laughing joy
Had borne up the mountain road
The altar wood, which in mournful mood
His sire had helped to load,
Type of Him who dragged up Calvary,
The cross on which he was doomed to die.
The hot breath of noon began, full soon,
On his youthful frame to tell;
On the ivory brow, flushed, wearied now,
It laid its burning spell;
And listless--languid--he journeyed on,
The smiles from _his_ lips and bright eyes gone.
Once did he say, on their toilsome way,
"Father, no victim is near,"
But with heavy sigh and tear-dimmed eye,
In accents sad though clear,
Abraham answered: "The Lord, our guide,
A fitting sacrifice will provide."
The altar made and the fuel laid,
Lo! the victim stretched thereon
Is Abraham's son, his only one,
Who at morning's blushing dawn
Had started with smiles that care defied
To travel on at his father's side.
With grief-struck brow the Patriarch now
Bares the sharp and glittering knife;
On that mournful pyre, oh hapless sire!
Must he take his darling's life?
Will fails not, though his eyes are dim,
God gave his boy--he belongs to him.
With anguish riven, he casts towards Heaven
One look, imploring, wild,
That doth mutely pray for strength to slay
His own, his only child;
When forth on the air swells a glad command,
And an angel stays his trembling hand.
The offering done, the sire and son
Come down Moriah's steep,
Joy gleaming now on Abraham's brow,
In his heart thanksgiving deep;
While with love from His lofty and glorious Throne
Heaven's King hath smiled on sire and son.
THE STABLE OF BETHLEHEM.
'Twas not a palace proud and fair
He chose for His first home;
No dazz'ling pile of grandeur rare,
With pillar'd hall and dome;
Oh no! a stable, rude and poor,
Received Him at His birth;
And thus was born, unknown, obscure,
The Lord of Heaven and Earth.
No band of anxious menials there,
To tend the new-born child,
Joseph alone and Mary fair
Upon the infant smiled;
No broidered linens fine had they
Those little limbs to fold,
No baby garments rich and gay,
No tissues wrought with gold.
Come to your Saviour's lowly bed,
Ye vain and proud of heart!
And learn with bowed and humbled head
The lesson 'twill impart;
'Twill teach you not to prize too high
The riches vain of earth--
But to lay up in God's bright sky
Treasures of truer worth.
And you, poor stricken sons of grief,
Sad outcasts of this life,
Come, too, and seek a sure relief
For your heart's bitter strife;
Enter that village stable door,
And view that lowly cot--
Will it not teach you to endure,
And even bless your lot?
VIRGIN OF BETHLEHEM.
Virgin of Bethlehem! spouse of the Holy One!
Star of the pilgrim on life's stormy sea!
Humbler thy lot was than this world's most lowly one,
List to the prayers that we offer to thee!
Not for the joys that this false earth bestoweth,
Empty and fleeting as April sunshine,
But for the grace that from holiness floweth,
Grace, purest Mother, that always was thine.
Charity ardent, and zeal that abounded,
Thine was the will of thy Father above,
Thus thy life's fervor so strangely confounded
Cold hearts that mocked at religion's pure love.
Meekness in suffering, patience excelling,
Bowed thee, unmurm'ring, beneath sorrow's rod;
Spirit of purity ever indwelling
Made thee the Temple and Mother of God.
These are the gifts that thy children implore,
With hearts warmly beating, and low bended knee;
Oh! ask of thy Son, whom we humbly adore,
To grant us the prayers that we whisper to thee.
THE PURIFICATION.
Softly the sunbeams gleamed athwart the Temple proud and high--
Built up by Israel's wisest to the Lord of earth and sky--
Lighting its gorgeous fretted roof, and every sacred fold
Of mystic veil--from gaze profane that hid the ark of old.
Ne'er could man's gaze have rested on a scene more rich and
bright:
Agate and porphyry--precious gems--cedar and ivory white,
Marbles of perfect sheen and hue, sculptures and tintings rare,
With sandal wood and frankincense perfuming all the air.
But see, how steals up yonder aisle, with rows of columns high,
A female form, with timid step and downcast modest eye;--
A girl she seems by the fresh bloom that decks her lovely face--
With locks of gold and vestal brow, and form of childish grace.
Yet, no! those soft, slight arms enfold a helpless new-born
child,
Late entered on this world of woe--still pure and undefiled;
While two white doves she humbly lays before the altar there
Tell that, despite her girlish years, she knows a matron's care.
No fairer sight could heart have asked than that which met the
view,
E'en had He been the child of sin--and she a sinner, too;
But how must heavenly hosts have looked in breathless rapture on,
Knowing Him, as the Temple's Lord--the Word--th'Eternal Son!
While _she_ was that Maid Mother rare--fairest of Adam's race,
Whom Heaven's Archangel, bending low, had hailed as full of
grace,--
The Mother of that infant God close clasped unto her breast--
the Mary humble, meek and pure, above all women _blessed_.
OUR SAVIOUR'S BOYHOOD.
With what a flood of wondrous thoughts
Each Christian breast must swell
When, wandering back through ages past,
With simple faith they dwell
On quiet Nazareth's sacred sod,
Where the Child Saviour's footsteps trod.
Awe-struck we picture to ourselves
That brow serene and fair,
That gentle face, the long rich curls
Of wavy golden hair,
And those deep wondrous, star-like eyes,
Holy and calm as midnight skies.
We see Him in the work-shop shed
With Joseph, wise and good,
Obedient to His guardian's word,
Docile and meek of mood;
The Mighty Lord of Heaven and Earth
Toiling like one of lowly birth.
Or else, with His young Mother fair--
That sinless, spotless one,
Who watched with fond and reverent care,
Her high and glorious Son,
Knowing a matron's joy and pride,
And yet a Virgin pure beside.
All marvelled at the strange, shy grace
Of Mary's gentle Son;
Young mothers envied her the Boy
Who love from all hearts won;
And, gazing on that face so mild,
Prayed low to Heaven for such a child.
Though with the boys of Nazareth
He never joined in mirth,
Yet young and old felt strangely drawn
Towards His modest worth;
E'en though that quiet, wondrous Child,
Had never laughed nor even smiled.*
For even then prophetic rose
Before His spirit's gaze
The cruel Cross, the griefs reserved
For manhood's coming days,
And, worse than all, the countless host
That, spite His pangs, might yet be lost.
Silent and calm, He held His way
From morn till evening still;
His thoughts intent on working out
His Mighty Father's will;
While Heaven bent in ecstasy,
O'er the Boy-God of Galilee.
[* An old tradition avers that our Saviour was never seen to
laugh during His mortal life.]
OUR SAVIOUR AND THE SAMARITAN WOMAN AT THE WELL.
Close beside the crystal waters of Jacob's far-famed well,
Whose dewy coolness gratefully upon the parched air fell,
Reflecting back the bright hot heavens within its waveless
breast,
Jesus, foot-sore and weary, had sat Him down to rest.
Alone was He--His followers had gone to Sichar near,
Whose roofs and spires rose sharply against the heavens clear,
For food which Nature craveth, whate'er each hope or care,
And which, though Lord of Nature, He disdained not to share.
While thus He calmly waited, came a woman to the well,
With water vase poised gracefully, and step that lightly fell,
One of Samaria's daughters, most fair, alas! but frail,
Her dark locks bound with flowers instead of modest, shelt'ring
veil.
No thought of scornful anger within _His_ bosom burned,
Nor, with abhorrent gesture, His face from her He turned;
But as His gaze of purity dwelt on her, searching, meek,
Her bright eyes fell, and blushes hot burned on her brow and
cheek.
He told her with a gentleness, by God-like pity nursed,
Of wond'rous living fountains at which to slake her thirst;
That those whose lips, thrice blessed, should a draught from them
obtain,
Despite earth's toils and troubles, would ne'er know thirst
again.
He spoke, too, of the frailties which her womanhood had marred,
That priceless crown which, she, alas! had sadly failed to guard,
No word of bold denial did that woman dare to plan--
She felt that He who spoke with her was more than mortal man.
And when the twelve disciples returned, their errand done,
They wondered at His converse with that lost and erring one,
But still they asked no question, while she, with thoughtful
mien,
Returned to tell her friends at home of all that she had seen.
Not only for that daughter of Samaria's hot clime--
Child of an ancient people, of a by-gone faith and time--
Was meant the exhortation that from His lips then fell,
But for His Christian children, for us, to-day, as well.
For us, still pure and sparkling, those living waters flow
Of which He told Samaria's child long centuries ago:
Forgetting thoughts of earthly pride, and hopes of worldly gain,
Seek we but once of them to drink--we'll never thirst again.
THE TEN LEPERS.
'Neath the olives of Samaria, in far-famed Galilee,
Where dark green vines are mirrored in a placid silver sea,
'Mid scenes of tranquil beauty, glowing sun-sets, rosy dawn,
The Master and disciples to the city journeyed on.
And, as they neared a valley where a sheltered hamlet lay,
A strange, portentous wailing made them pause upon their way--
Voices fraught with anguish, telling of aching heart and brow,
Which kept moaning: "Jesus, Master, have mercy on us now!"
Softly raised the gentle Saviour His eyes like midnight star,
And His mournful gaze soon rested on ten lepers, who, afar,
Stood motionless and suppliant, in sackcloth rudely clothed,
Poor Pariahs! by their nearest, their dearest, shunned and
loathed.
Not unto Him prayed vainly those sore afflicted ten,
No! He yearned too fondly over the erring sons of men,
Even sharing in their sorrows, though He joined not in their
feasts,--
So He kindly told the Lepers: "Show yourselves unto the priests."
When, miracle of mercy! as they turned them to obey,
And towards the Holy Temple quickly took their hopeful way,
Lo! the hideous scales fell off them, health's fountains were
unsealed,
Their skin grew soft as infant's--their leprosy was healed.
O man! so oft an ingrate, to thy thankless nature true,
Thyself see in those Lepers, who did as thou dost do;
Nine went their way rejoicing, healed in body--glad in soul--
Nor once thought of returning thanks to Him who made them whole.
One only, a Samaritan, a stranger to God's word,
Felt his joyous, panting bosom, with gratitude deep stirred,
And without delay he hastened, in the dust, at Jesus' feet,
To cast himself in worship, in thanksgiving, warm and meet.
Slowly questioned him the Saviour, with majesty divine:--
"Ten were cleansed from their leprosy--where are the other nine?
Is there none but this one stranger--unlearned in Gods ways,
His name and mighty power, to give word of thanks or praise?"
The sunbeams' quivering glories softly touched that God-like
head,
The olives blooming round Him sweet shade and fragrance shed,
While o'er His sacred features a tender sadness stole:
"Rise, go thy way," He murmured, "thy faith hath made thee
whole!"
THE BLIND MAN OF JERICHO.
He sat by the dusty way-side,
With weary, hopeless mien,
On his furrowed brow the traces
Of care and want were seen;
With outstretched hand and with bowed-down head
He asked the passers-by for bread.
The palm-tree's feathery foliage
Around him thickly grew,
And the smiling sky above him
Wore Syria's sun-bright hue;
But dark alike to that helpless one
Was murky midnight or noon-tide sun.
But voices breaking the silence
Are heard, fast drawing nigh,
And falls on his ear the clamor
Of vast crowds moving by:
"What is it?" he asks, with panting breath;
They answer: "Jesus of Nazareth."
What a spell lay in that title,
Linked with such mem'ries high
Of miracles of mercy,
Wrought 'neath Judaea's sky!
Loud calls he, with pleading voice and brow,
"Oh! Jesus, on me have mercy now!"
How often had he listened
To wond'rous tales of love--
Of the Galilean's mercy,
Of power from above,
To none other given of mortal birth
To heal the afflicted sons of earth.
With faith that never wavered
Still louder rose his cry,
Despite the stern rebuking
Of many standing nigh,
Who bade him stifle his grief or joy,
Nor "the Master rudely thus annoy."
But, soon that voice imploring
Struck on the Saviour's ear,
He stopped, and to His followers
He said "Go bring him here!"
And, turning towards him that God like brow,
He asked the suppliant, "What wouldest thou?"
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