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BREMNER, KENT STREET. 1870. ^53/ J**^**^ ^^ '/3 I '"»» L' k ^ f^ ^l^'^ ^4?; 'itrre |oj„^,-6 §tott,. i i PIEEEE GODEY'S STORY. PACED the shores of the great Northern Gulf ^ In autumn, when, beneath the harvest sun. The fruitful grainfields oowed their golden stalks To the sharp sickle; or, with sheaves lay strewn Like some great battle-field, where, after fray, A nation's dead lie graveless. In the woods. The leaves were dying, but, in dying, shone Like saints transfigured. From the balmy south A languid breeze scarce stirred the turquoise lakes. Teeming with myriad birds, which filled the air With distant clamor and the whirr of wings, As, in huge flocks, they wheeled and swam before The Micmao hunters' stealthy, swift canoe. A lodge, 'mid the dark pines crowning the cliff. Sent from its fire a pillar of blue smoke. 6 PIERRE aODET's 8T0RT. Ascending heavenward through the drean.y air,- So pure and blue and cloudless. E^en the sea Scarce rippled, as its silent surges broke On sandstone ledge and level of bare sand. r / f^ rw '"^ I I, luckless sportsman, sought to kill in vain : The withered reecls no longer shelter gave From the quick glances of the tribes of air; But 'neath the maples, in the woods above, ' I met an og6d man, whoso grandsires came From fair Acadia in day., long past. Who laid aside his ,m,sguci, quaint and old,- PIERRE GODEY's 8T0RT. ' A relic of the fall of Beau Sejour, And the last siege of fated Louisbourg- — And, resting, told the legend, strange and rare. Of those Acadfans who sailed aivay As into exile, leaving, far behind, Grand-Pro in ashes, and their flocks and herds Starving and masterless. IIow they arose. Slaying their guard, then northward held their way. And parted, some to seek their native France, The rest to battle with the wilds ao-ain. i "An hundred years and twelve have passed away Since, 'neath the chapel-roof of Grand-Pre, met The yeomanry of Minas, fearing much. But knowing naught deserving of the blow That fell upon them, giving their broad fields Back to the wilderness, themselves and theirs' To dreary exile in a distant land : Where e'en their speech was strange; their ancient faith. 8 PIERRE OODET's STORY. Their antique costume, and their simple ways Unknown and hated. As stern Winslow read— A thousand maddening thoughts tortured each brain. And racked each heart. And at the close he spake As one who bears the summons of the Lord, Yet feels for him whose doom it is to die. Each unarmed hunter writhed with grief and rage. At thought of trusty weapon left concealed. And here and there a glaive, or pistol, flashed In the soft ray, that gilded with warm light The picture rude, which o'er the alter hung: Where from the cross, calm eyes seemed bent in woe. On those fierce faces terrible with rao-e Convulsed with grief and agony — below. But madness it had been to face the steel Of those New Englanders, so coldly stern Yet pitiful, when ceased the frantic cry For vengeance, and their captives kneeling wept, And prayed before the Saviour crucified. tf rii PIERRB QODEy's STORY. 9 f I^ The guard was set, the search for arms was o'er. The captives wept and prayed aud slept by turns. And near the altar, ou the chancel floor. Reclined four, whispering among themselves: My grandsire Godh ; Clementine Benoit, A hardy coureur of Chignecto's woods, Felix Durel, a fisher of the gulf, And one who called himself Rcnaud Drucour— Whose life was a dark riddle to all eyes; His beardless cheek wore not the flush of youth; Masses of rich dark curls hung o'er a brow Deep-lined by thought, or grief, or care, or crime- Which, no one knew; beneath it flashed his eyes; Keen as a basilisk^s; yet quick to change Whene'er his cold, calm voice heightened its tone. Which seldom happened, except when anger stirred. Or when he heard some mention of the past. And victories won beneath the Fleur-de-lis. Few knew him, no one shared his lonely walks. 10 PIEREE QODEY's STOEY. And, save the friendship of the parish priest. There was no bond to hold e'en the respect Of his companions, till that fatal eve. When he alone of all that crowd of men Scorned to despair. Keenly he eyed the guard : Then to my grandsire, as the oldest spoke, Asking if ho could choose three men, whose souls. Intent on freedom, would not snnnk from death; He answered, ' Here are Clementine Beooit, Felix Durel, the fisher of the gulf, And there lies Victor Chaisson, in whose veins Half the rich blood is seething with the firo And daring of the Abenaquis braves. Who sing and laugh e'en at the very stake/ " 'Tis wel V said the pale stripling, ' bring them here J And there upon the cross, they breathed a vow- To follow him and trust him to the death. Nor breathe a syllable of his design /.^ «r f PIERRE GODEY's story. To any. Then Drucourt, in whispers, told Of weapons hidden ^neath the brought there by nio-ht n chancel fioor From the sha gut, in secret cr ypis concealed Until the day should rp search of the Provincial h 'oop^ Th come when once ag-ain •nen of Minas, 'ncath the Pleiu-de-lis m free theiiisel ves- Should from their cruel thraldo Sweeping the heretic from out the land Now that fond hope .as gone and naught could save ^te. fnends from exile; but there still .-emained A hope of freedon. fo. themselves and theirs, And vengeance on the author of their woe ' ' He touched a spring i„ the smooth floor, and shd A tmy panel slowly back; beneath, Glittered a row of barrels, long and bright. And the sharp blades of bayonet and axe Victor, with flashing eyes, hissed through set teeth 'Could we but get at them and arm our friends' •They are not loaded, these must serve our turn' 12 PlEfiEE GODBY^S STOEY. a. And from a nook, the nearest to his hand. He drew a pair of pistols, richly chased, And a keen dagger; these he deftly placed Within his vest, then to the others gave A keen-edged hatchet with a slender helve. Like the light war-axe of a Micmac brave, Then closed the panel on the arms, that lie E'en to this day, beneath the grain that nods Over the ashes of those hallowed walls. They kept his secret through the dreary days, And nights, made desolate with a people's woe That slowly followed. Then the comrades five Tarried until the last of those who marched Down to the sea, ' mid files of armed men. Gazing their last on the loved scenes of home. And, it so happened that these five wee placed With thei- own loved ones, on a bark so old And ill-equipped, and leaky, that she lagged Behind the others, and the light-armed sloops PIERRE GOT)Ey's story. 13 Which conveyed them. While Driicourfc woited well A fitting time to rise against the guard— A dozen men, whose sergeant, stern and old, Never relaxed his vigilance, but kept His men on guard, though fearing little harm From half a score of broken hearted men. "But Drucourt, with his pale and careworn face, Sought converse with him daily, speaking much Of his long wanderings amid the tribes Of the Souriquois, or the hours beguiled With Indian legends, mystical and strange, With wonders of a half forgotten past, Still, by the embers' red, uncertain glare. Told in the wigwams of a wasting race; And, often as he spoke of fight, Drucourt Would send the war-whoop pealing o'er the sea, Bringing some startled sentry to his feet. And a grim smile to the old sergeant's face 2 14 PIERRE GODin-'s STORY. ''The crisis came. When the third inorniDg dawned Around them, the blue heavens met the .sea In one unbroken circle, and Drucourt Said, in the narrow passage to the deck ; 'When peals the war-cry through the air to-day. It calls us, or our captors to the gi-ave,— Be ready!' and his eyes grew strangely bright. Like the lithe panther's when about to spring. But on the deck he seemed another man. Yawning like one drowsy with too much sleep, While Gode, Chaisson, Benoit, and Durel Flung themselves down to leeward in the sun, Wrapping their cloaks around them. But, beneath. Each nervous right hand grasped the ready axe; Each anxious heart grew hot and chill by turns. Waiting that summons to a doubtful strife. Four sentries slowly paced the crowded decks : One by the windlass ; two beside the hatch ; The fourth guarded the guns of the relief. I T ed PIERRE GUDEY fci STORY. Near sat the sergeant, buried in the calm And dreamy pleasures of his morning pipe ; Victor strode forward, looking o'er the sea, As if his thoughts were of his future lot ; Durel and Benoit loitered in the waist; My grandsire Gode sauntered farther aft. And Drucourt, idly stretching, yawning wide. Bade 'a good morning' to the veteran scout. Who answered him as kindly, but bewailed The tardy progress of their ancient craft. And asked Renaud to while the hours away With some wild Indian legend of the past. U r " He, nothing loath, began a stormy tale Of a great wizai-d— rising from the tomb Of his dead mother, murdered ere his birth. By his own g-andsire. How he grew and learned All knowledge under heaven; healed the sick. And slew the giants, eaters of men's flesh, 16 PIERRE GODEY's STORY. And his own grandsire, chieftain of them all/ His eyes grew brighter, his shght form erect, As he continued: 'How, equipped for war. He sought his grandsires hold, a cavern drear, Strewn with the spoils and bones of many men, How fearlessly he entered, told his name. And found at last the vengeance that he sought- Pealing the war-whoop with triumphant lips—' * * * « # # "As that fierce yell burst on the tranquil air, It found an echo in the dying moan Of three men of the four ; while Drucourt struck Full at the sergeant's breast; but he had marked Unwonted fervour in that idle tale. And felt some coming danger: so the blow Was parried; but my grandsire with his axe Had felled the sentinel— a second blow Fell on the sergeant's head. The guns were won ; The soldiers in the cabin all unai-med ; \ 4 ^ \ PI ERR K GODEY's STORY. The crew o'eiawed and trembling. Then Di'ucourt Armed the Aciidiens, and bound the rest — Sent Felix to the helm — then reeled and fell, Mortally wounded by the only blow Of the dead sergeant's sword, still firmly grasped By the cold hand, which ne'er would wield it more. 17 My grandsire gently raised him in his arms, But strove to stanch the flowing blood in vain. Tears fell, and cries of sorrow rent the air, As near him the Acadieu women knelt — Proffering rude aid, or asking grace of heaven. .im 18 PIERRE O D E Y ' S STORY. But he seemed all at peace, and calmly spoke; 'Bury me with the English; our long feud Shall slumber with us 'neath the wave or sod. Much blood my hand hath shed— I fear in vain ; Daily the power of France dwindles away ; And our stern foes conquer and hold the land, Covering with fort and blockhouse, growing towns, And the tall spires of an apostate faith. Yet well I wish your freedom had been bought With my own life alone, for those who sleep, Slain yonder at their posts, were kind, as seemed Consistent with stern duty; and their babes Will weep for them in their New England homes. No home is desolate because I die: That which I had, perished in blood and flame— My vengeance is appeased; henceforth I rest. After short sojourn here— so full of pain. That death is welcome.' As he slowly spoke. His glorious eyes grew dim; his pulses weak; ^\ fsr I 1 PIERRE GODEy's STORY. Ill J^ T His breathing difficult, until it ceased— And he lay dead upon the crimson deck: His blood the price of freedom ; while hot tears, A grateful tribute to his memory, fell. A week ago a stranger to them all— A martyr and a saviour ever more. "They laid the dead beneath an ancient tree— The victor and his victims; and they raised A wooden cross, long since blent with the dust; Then, parting, sought an'otho- forest home In Canada, Acadie, or St. Jean. While others crossed the ocean, where the sun Ripens the purple grapes of fertile France. My grandsire settled here, and he and his, In the long evenings of the winter months. Often have told, and still repeat the tale. Of the recapture of the English bark. The death of Drucourt, and his unknown grave. Beneath the birches of a sea-worn cliff.'' ^^^^^^ • i 20 , > PIERRE aODEY S STORY. Wt' piirtod us tlic Sim sank slowly down, Fillinfjf tiie West with glory, such as words May not describe : its beams gilding alike The massive cross on the cathedral dome, And the s([iiaro ])elfVy of the rural church; Wliile on the S^^^^'> '^ century ago Oft I'eddened with the conflicts of our sires, An hundred white- winged boats crept towards the land And, mellowed by the distance, rose the hum Of many voices raised iu laugh and song — Acadien French and English intermixed. Then the old tale of vengeance and of wrong, Loomed, through the misty veil of bygone years, Like some vague memory of a troubled dream, As, 'neath the rising moon, T hastened home. - - -'^■Mu* .'^' ^ f v^ i j i ,.i, 1 ( 111 i li itr i f t kt iaptaln's Btot^. t / 4. X X THE CAPTAIN'S STORY. ■STBANQE Wild legend-of a si.nple rtwe, Who, fro,,, tho fishing banks of the great gn)f. Draw h,.lf their sparse subsistence, while the soil Yields scanty stores of fibre, roots and graiij. To unskilled tillage-here I offer you. A mariner, who sailed these northern seas. Landed one Sabbath eve at Carraquette, And spent a quiet evening at the hearth Of an Acadien, who lived alone With his long-widowed sister; and their guest Asked of the fate of husband, mother, sire. And many children born beneath their roof. The brother answered : " All tho children died In infancy and youth, save Marguerite, 24 THE CAPTAINS STORY. Placide, Jean and myself. Poor Alexis — Marguerite*s husband, and our brothers, died In that great gale, eleven years ago." Then, by the dim light of their iccanty fire. He told the story that I tell to you — As on a winter's eve I heard it first ; *Tis called The Captain's Story, '^> " Long years have passed, since, on a summer morn, Stood ()ut to sea the boats of Carraquette, To join the fleet, which, from the shores around — From Misoou, Shippegan, and Tracadie — Glided before the south- wind's gentle breath. To brave the surges on the Orphan bank. "Among them sailed two sons of Paul Belcour : Placide and Jean, with Alexis Marco, Their sister's bridegroom but a week before ; And the young bride had risen with her lord — While mystic moonlight blent with coming day — ii THE captain's STOKY, 25 Gave them their frugal meal; a parting kiss; Watched as they hastened down the narrow path. And disappeared among the dew-hung pines. '■**? V' That skirted the still river; heard the ropes Splash, as the mooring buoy fell from the bows; The creaking blocks ; the flapping of the sails ; The cadenced dipping of their heavy oars ; Then saw them glide from the sequestered stream, Into the quiet waters of the bay- — The ripples sparkling in the silvery light; The east just blushing with the dawn of day. 26 THE captain's STORY. Delaying, from the doorway, Marguerite Watched eagerly, until, 'mid many boats, She could no longer recognize the bark [couch. Which bore her friends; then, sighing, sought her ''But Placide, Jean, and Alexis Marco, Joining the fleet, answered the merry hail And frequent jest which greeted each new bark, After the merry fashion of their race— The French Acadiens. Three centuries Of ceaseless tillage of a rugged land ; Of voyaging upon a stormy coast; With years of battle for their land and faith— And all the ills which gall a conquered race- Have failed to cloud their sunny gaiety. Or still the laughter, light ns summer breeze. Brought by their ancestors from sunny France— Which cheered the sires 'mid suffering and defeat; And lightens now their children's ill paid toil. r ■J^ A. Jr^ THE captain's STORY. 27 ^y.f^ X " The fishers glided down the tranquil bay, Borne on the ebbing tide; each heavy sail ' Listlessly waving, for the breeze was light. Bat fragrant with the sweet breath of the flowers. And the aroma of the distant pines. They swept down narrow channels, flowing free; Amid wide reaches of close-matted weeds- Whose glistening masses of long tape-like leaves Concealed the water and deep ooze beneath; Along the shallow bars and island shores Of Shippegan and Miscou; and at length Entered the gulf, and gently rose and fell On the e'er- throbbing pulses of the sea. "The wind increased, until each snowy sail Strained the tense sheet, as doth a steed his rein. Bach boat bent low before the swelling breeze, Fntil the glancing ripples gently kissed The leward gunwale, while beneath the bows. 26 THE captain's STORY. The riven waves rolled up thick flakes of foam, Until the noonday sun stood overhead, And the whole fleet tugged at their mooring gear, Amid the shallows of the Orphan Bank. Two days they bent over their slender lines, Lightening toil with laughter, jest, 'ud song; Seasoning coarse fare with well earned appetite, And sleeping soundly 'neath their scanty deck — After rude prayer, and simple thoughts of home. "The third day dawned upon a glassy sea; And surges that had swept from world to world. Deserted by the winds, grew languid too : Scarce rocking the light shallops, as they passed, To break in silence on the distant sides Of gloomy Cape Despair, and Point Pabou : Which, as the sun sank westward, seemed to rise Amid the sunset's many tinted skies. So that the fishers wondered ; but a few, • '>i THK captain's 8T0RY. 21) J^ Whose silvered Jocks told of Jong years of life Amid the toils and dangers of the sea- Drew ominous presage tlience, and shook their heads j Speaking among themselves of coming storms ; Never far distant, when the massive cliffs Seemed thus to spurn the sea that kissed their feet. ''Then, as the twilight fell, each mariner Uttered the evening prayer, with reverent lips,- And for a while the merry jesting ceased. The darkness gathered, and, amid its gloom, The signal lanterns gleamed like fire-fiies. Or like the stars, that hero and there overhead Gleamed softly on them : for the upper air Was full of gathering vapors, swept along By gales that vexed mid-heaven, but left the sea, Unruffled by the breeze, in glassy calm. And, as the fishers slumbered, heavy clouds, Rugged, and black, and threatening, gathered still- 4 -%-.4 .0 30 Tiff: CAPTAliN's ftJTOUV. T The mustering forcos of the coining storm — Hiding tho pallid crescent of the moon; Shutting out, one by one, the kindly stars; And heavy with the vapors that the sun Had gathered, in an hundred days of cahn, — Destined to foil in torrents of cokl rain, On a wild scene of tempest, wreck, and death. But, still, the calm continued, though the sea Rose high and threatening, though unruffled still ; And the Volant, as passed the hours away, Strained more and more her heavy mooring gear. As the sea rose and tho long night wore on. M^ "Still the tired fishers slept, — and Alexis, In the deep sleep, bought with a day of toil. Seemed to have moored his deeply laden boat In the wood-sheltered cove at Carraquette. Marguerite met him on the beach; her arms Fondly embraced him; her long jetty curls T ^-^'^ t ■f T T ^ •riiii captain's stokt. Resting uj,ou hk sLouWor; her fbnU eyes Half dimmed with momoi'ies of hor futile fears, lint radiant at his coming; while her lips, Ifalf-open, uttered, '1 am glad you come, Alexis, for our parting has been long.' '"Alexis! rouse, Alexis!' The deep voice ''ailed him from dreams of loWug Marguerite, And the calm quiet of the sheltered beach- To scan a starless lieaveu heaped with clouds; A sea of mountain surges, white with foam; Beneath liim the Volaut-like a young steed- Strahied at her cable, trembling at each shock, ITalf buried by the crests of the huge waves; Bising, unconquered still, to meet again The ceaseless onset of those lines of foam. Yet, still the breeze was feeble,-with scarce power To stir a maiden's ringlets, or the leaves Of the light aspen,_and this strange calm gave New dangers, added horrors to the scene. 31 32 THE CAPTAINS S TO K Y. " Soon, through the gloom, they saw a light draw Now lost to view behind those angry seas — [near — Now gleaming on the crest of some huge wave, — Bearing down full upon them ; by the gleam They saw a bark, whose sails were spread in vain. Helplessly drifting 'mid the furious surge. Her crew toiled wearily, with heavy oars, To keep her pi'ow before the foaming seas, Which tossed her like a leather to and fro; And, at the helm, beneath the lantern's glare. Gleamed the age-silvered locks of Pere Chaisson, Who loudly hailed them — ' For sweet Mary's sake, Make fast the line ! ' Then through the gloom there A coil that struck the mainmast, and Placide [whizzed Fastened the rope ; beneath the added strain. The stout Volant sank deeper, and the seas Began to sweep across her. Alexis Called to the other — ' If we hold you long. The sea will swamp us ! ' Answered Pere Chaisson, '1 M T I I I k THE CAI'TAIN's STORY. 'Hold US until the wind comes e'er so li'^-lit. Then loose us, and God's holy will be done I Lacroix sank at his moorings, with his sons; Gode parted his cable, and the waves Brove him against me; I have saved his crew— But we are leaking badly — tell my wife!' Then the Volant reeled 'neath a breaking sui-ge. That threatened to engulf her; but the line, That held the other, parted like a thread; While the three fishers saw the gleaming lio-ht Losing itself amid that heaving waste. And the thick vapors of that dreadful calm. Naught could be done but to await the storm- Long since the three had double-reefed the sails; Fastened the buoy, and paid the cable out, Till the last foot waited the ready knife. At last the gloom grew denser overhead ; Some heavy drops fell on their upturned eyes; They heard a rushing as of many wings — SS mmmt ;^t THE CAPTAIN S BTOUY. s The tempest was upon them ! with a flood Of* blinding rain ; a blast, that swept the spray From off the combing surges, whistling shrill Amid the cordage, as Alexis cried — * Cut loose, there, forward ! ' and the keen knife fell. ^* f '"'The bows fell off before the raging gale — The boat seemed flying 'neath her scanty sail ; And scarce a league to leeward, Alexis Passed, in the vale, between two giant seas, A boat with sails all riven by the blast ; And, from the wreck, Pere Chaisson sadly cried- if 4 THE CACTAIN'tJ STOUV. « 4^ PAKT II. "On the third afternoon, fair Marguerite Sat at her flax-vvheel, in her father's porch; An ancient elm before the doorway stood, Giving cool shadow, while its rustling leaves Blent with the never-ceasing drowsy hum t m TIIK captain's STOKY. Of tlic frail lifo that fills tliu surnmor air. But as the whirring wheel and goldon flax, Busied her handa, with cheery voice she sung Old songs, with ancient carols and sweet lays ; Then last she tried the chant that Alexis, With her two brothers, in the chapel choir, Had learned the week before they sailed away, — But its grand solemn movement and deep tones, Baffled her efforts, and she, laughing, ceased. 1 "But, as she spun or sang, her laughing eyes Grew sober, as they gazed upon the sea — Dreamy with longing and with fond regret. And then she smiled and said : ' To-morrow night, Or the day after, the Volant will come, With snowy sails, leading the lagging fleet; Then I shall see her anchor in the cove. And meet Alexis on the sandy beach.' The sun behind the tree- tops sank at last — \ i *^ { THE captain's STOUY. Hl* W I i THE CAPTA1n\s S T O li Y. I cannot learn that the Volant is lost; And think Alexis kept the open straits — Fearing to make a harbor before dawn; If so, we shall not see him for some days. So dry your tears, or rather weep with ns : For all our coast is filled with sobs and tears, And death has entered into every house ! ' Thus said Pere Chaisson ; first, with firm set-Hps, That yielding as he spoke, closed with a sob- As the two crews bore, up the silent beach. The mangled Code, and the lost Durels. I i *h fi "I cannot paint the horrors of that niirht — The change from joy to sorrow — as the throng, That sought the beach to welcome loved ones there. Made the night desolate with sounds of woe. And piercing lamentation, as they boie Husband and father, sire and l)rother home. But Marguerite — through all that weary time; f\' ■ ^ u TIIR CAPTAIN .S S T K Y. riiougli her own fears were gnawing afc her heart — Bore, to the mother of the lost Durels, The mournful tidings ; and her gentle hands, For many hours, labored for those who wept. O'er those whose tearless eyes should weep no more. '' But though she watched, and waited, till the leaves Grew radiant with the colors, that make death — Repulsive in all else — glorious in them ; Although, by daylight, she watched every sail; And in the darkness sought the gloomy beach, At every flap of sail, or dip of oars — No tidings ever came, of the Volant, Of Jean and Placide, or of Alexis. And when the winter closed the straits with ice, And heaped the narrow roads with drifted snow, Marguerite gave up hoping, and the priest Said masses for the sons of Paul Belcour — As lost at sea, with Alexis Marco. t THE captain's STORY. 4 PART III. The springtime came at last : the fettered tides Broke their chill prison-walls ; awhile the sea Bore, on its heaving bosom, icy fields. Pinnacled bergs and strangely shapen floes— That, as the spring days lengthened, from their sides Poured pearly drops and little limpid streams. As, with the wind and tide over the sea. They wandered like the German Water-nymph, Until like her they were dissolved in tears. And mingled with the waters ; then the birds Came back from southern wanderings to their haunts. In forest, field and ocean-and their notes Gladdened the woods-fragrant with bursting buds ; Then once again the farmer sought the field ; The mariner spread wide his roving sails ; The hardy fishermen mended their nets. Repaired their boats, and once again to sea, Swept the diminished fleet of Carraquette- 4(3 THE captain's STORY. This time to southward, where the screaming gulls Circling in heaven and plunging in the seas, Told that the herring schools drew near the coast. The last remaining son of Paul Belcour Sailed with them ; and, in Tracadie's lone bay, They cast their nets, as sank the sun in heaven ; Then, as the shadows deepened, rowed ashore To spend an evening with some countrymen. Whose farms lay far beyond the ancient woods, Which shaded with their branches the lone beach. The shallop, and the glassy cove beyond. I I '' Then as Jacques Belcour lightly sprang to land, Followed by his companions, a strange sound- As of a chant before some distant shrine- Came softly stealing down the woodland road That lay before them, gloomy with the night. And added shadow of overhanging pines. Then, as they threaded all its devious gloom. i i mmwmam ■r™-!HS~??-»>---- ,4r-- THE CAPTAlN^S STORY. 47 The sounds grew deeper, louder than before, Until they fancied they drew near its source; But, as they journeyed on, the melody Wavered, grew faint, and slowly died away Behind them. As they issued from the wood, The hamlet lay before them ; whence the glare Of fire and candle, through the windows, gave Promise of cordial welcome, such as meets Each French Acadien where'er he finds A hamlet of his people. There Belcour Asked if there stood a dwelling in the woods ? Or, had thoy met at chapel just at eve ? "They answered, that no dwelling stood betwepn Their hamlet and the shore; no priest had lit The chapel candles since last Sunday's mass. But as Belcour told of the mystic chant, Some, present, paled with memories wild and vacrne But answered not, for still the forest lay Between their guests and their far distant boat. ...-«7>-^&:rr.-,r.r!«j 48 THE captain's story. " Tho parting moment came— and as they passed Into the shadows of the forest road, Again tho same weird melody arose, Filling the forest covers with sweet chords: Solemn and steady, like a sacred chant- Yet mournful, like the murmur of the sea— And plaintive, as the tones of one who talks Of home, and love, far from his native land; Then slowly sank in dreamy symphonies. As, through a narrow rift, they saw the bay— A glassy mirror of unnumbered stars. But, as they stepped upon the midnight beach. Gently the mystic chorus died away— And, trembling with a terror undefined. They sought the shelter of their anchored bark. 1 " But though they humbly bent the knee in prayer. And sought repose beneath their scanty deck. All the night long a terror filled each breast— <^ I I 71 i Kf THE captain's STORY. 49 A strong desire, a longing agonj. To know the source from which a melody So weird, and awful, yet so sweet, arose. Therefore they talked and wondered, but slept not. Until the sun, although not yet arisen. Somewhat dispersed the shadows of the night. "Then they arose and underran their nets- Landing their spoil upon the pebbly beach. Then once again they heard the unknown sounds- Plaintive and sweet, and thrilling as before. Again they sought the wood-road cold with dew. Keeping straight forward as the music rose, But turning when it faltered— till at last. They entei-ed a recess, where the strange sounds— Their mission ended— 'neath their very feet, Seemed to sink downward, untill all was still. '' Panting, they rested by the blasted trunk Of a gigantic pine ; and, ' neath their feet, m 50 THE CAPTAIN S STORY. A moun ^ ''oso higher than the earth around — On vvhicu no tuft of grass, nor trailing vine, Nor clustering shrub, nor hardy arbutus, Grew in tliat little waste of barren sand. Turning, the fishers sought the distant farms — Took from the barns such tools as they desired, And, hastening back, toiled earnestly, until They fc ' the treasui'es which the mound concealed. '' There, little changed by reason of decay- Each scantly coffined in his fisher's coat — ff i fr THE captain's STORY. 51 Their stiffened hands folded as if in prayer, Lay the three fishermen of Carraquette. The mystery was solved — for those who dwelt Upon the quiet shores of Tracadie, Had found their bodies after the great gale, And thus had buried them beneath the pines. Then Jacques Belcour took up the unnailod planks That decked his open shallop ; and his men, Making rude coffins, placed the three therein — Cutting a ringlet from the head of each ; And in the Chapel-ground of Tracadie, Laid them at last in consecrated earth. I 52 THE captain's STORY. "Then, sailing northward, he bore .home the tale, That quenched poor Marguerite's last ray of hope- With its sure tidings of her husband's fate ; Yet gave her still a mystical and strange. Yet fervent gratitude, for that which gave An end, at last, to all her hopes and fears. i iWn ''^o-^Erx — x^AViV^^VV-VV S^-c^-o^ ^^1^ •^>' ,^r^- \ ->• '\t Islanb of i\t Itair, ir^ ¥ i t T i t THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD: fi. J-.EGEND OF ^RITTANY. j)wo hundred years ago, a group of men Watched, silently, a deeply laden bark, 'From the tall summit of the dunes, which then G uarded St. Peter's haven ; through the dai-k Shadows they gazed, as blended her tall spars With all their tracery of sheet and stay, "Into a dim white pyramid afar — Which 'mid the shadows of the evening gray, From their grave longing glances passed away. Well might they gaze ! She bore their comrades home To sunny Brittany: where dance, and song — The grape's rich juices— the soft spell of lov< 56 THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD. All that the heart desires, for which men long — Should well repay the weary season spent Among the foaming ledges of St. John. Their busy toil had crammed the roomy hold With fish, from deck to kelson, save where la}' Huge bales of fur, and reeking oil casks old, With narwhal-horn, and walrus ivory. The coming spring, they would return again ; But they must spend the winter, fierce and cold, In that lone isle, afar from christian men. I I i ;l I In their lone dwelling — half a blockhouse rude. With loopholed walls, and stockades, sharp and tall. Falcon and swivel ever threatening stood. On the flat rooPs half-battlemented wall^ Above a massive portal, straight, and fenced By hinge and hasp, with many a rivet clenched. Within, on one side yawned the hearth, a pyre Heaped with the limbs of huge old forest kings; i THE ISLAND OP THE DEAD. 57 I i' 1, I And the rich tinting of that blazing fire Fell on steel-plate and splent, on scales and rings Of morion and cuirass — and on hilt Of rapiers and daggers richly gilt — The spoils of fox and bear, of seal and moose — And the huge tubes of many an arquebuse; While in the midst a heavy table stood — Whereon, in massy cups, and beakers rude, The mete allowance of their treasured wine. Each evening spread an odor of the vine. Calling to memory, in that islet lone, — The fruity zephyrs of their eastern home — Their fertile fields— the mild unfettered seas- Its wooded isles — and straw-thatched cottages — The vineyards green, with purple clusters crowned— Wide-spreading orchards, where, 'mid leaves embrowned Apple and pear, quince, fig, and orange, shone. And ever in the evenings, long and lone, Over their wine, they sung sweet Gallic lays, "IMMMM Vr:f^iv^T;-7-jf^..i,i.^.^a^; " '"";*■" ■;IVW"jpf^t^j;bBfp*'»^^T^»it*^ i! 68 THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD. f Of love, and war, in maid's and heroes' praise; Or told strange tales, to lighten weary time In homely prose, or spirit-stirring rhyme. Their stalwart chief, Emile LeBlanc, by name — A smuggler of St. Malo; of vast frame. And noble face — over whose swarthy brow Fell waves of silken hair, which, white as snow. Blent with the flowing beard, which swept his chest — Nevertheless, seemed younger than the rest. Beneath his cloak a light cuirass of steel