ot, that the day
Of early bliss would pass away;
No retrospect can be more fair
That that I see behind me there,
Friend William Graham, I wish thee well,
But this to thee I need not tell.
Who is he with the cassock on,
Who bursts my second sight upon,
A merry twinkle in his eye,
Not sanctimonious, nor yet sly,
His country, one can scarcely miss
Such pure Hibernian brogue is his?
Tis surely Father Heron's gait,
Bytown's first priest in '28.
Close in canonical degree,
John Cannon's stately form I see,
In bigotry no stern red-tapist,
Favorite of Protestant and Papist;
A jovial blade with soul elastic,
No gloomy-faced ecclesiastic,
He ruled his congregation well,
Nor taught them that the path to hell
Was thronged by those who made digression
From penance, fasting and confession.
And there with academic birch,
Stands Anslie of the English Church,
Who preached in Hull and Bytown too,
Of old, to many a godless crew,
Assembled on each Sabbath day
To pass an idle hour away,
Though doubtless some went there to pray,
While here I pass in swift review
The reverend and pious few,
Who stood as finger posts of yore,
Pointing the way to Canaan's shore,
John Carroll surely should appear,
And take his proper station here,
An honest Wesleyan was he,
Who never knew hypocrisy.
George Poole in days more distant still,
In the little church on "Sandy Hill,"
Which gave its name to "Chapel Street,"
His congregation oft did meet.
And John C. Davidson, also,
Was one of those who long ago
'Mid primal darkness, thick and gross,
Unfurled the banner of the cross;
A Methodist both sound and prime
He was esteemed in the old time,
'Till something gave his faith a lurch,
And he bolted to the English Church,
In which 'tis said that he is quite
"A burning and a shining light."

CHAPTER X.

And now another man I seek,
Who lived on George Street, by the creek,
Lo! memory's telescopic eye
At once John Taillon's shade brings nigh,
And as his form approaches near,
His laugh I almost seem to hear.
One of those lost with much regret,
James Leamy, I would not forget,
Though not a man of '28,
His early and untimely fate--
His merry life and tragic fall,
Are in the memory of all.
And Andrew Leamy in his time,
Was head of many a stirring "shine;"
A man of mark he might be singled,
In whom the good and bad commingled,
In equal balance in such way,
That each in turn had its sway;
He's gone! the grass grows o'er his head;
The