/^^ And Othei^ Poems. 
 
 BY 
 
 PIERCE 8TEVENS HAMILTON. 
 
 HALIFAX, N. 8. 
 
 PRUrrKB BY JOHN BUROOYWK, HBPORTBR <& TIMES OFKIOE. 
 
 1878. 
 
F5 7-^^ 
 
 4 O ^^ C 
 
 Entered accovtli II},' to Act of Parliament of Canada, in tin; year 1878, liy 
 
 PIERCE STEVKNa HAMILTON, 
 
 In tlu! OfKce of the Minister of Agriculture. 
 
 J 
 
t.- 
 
 TO THE EAIlt, OF DUFIPKllIN,— 
 
 TU0K FitlEND OF CANADA, 
 
 AND WOUTIIY PATHON OF KVBRYTniNG WOnTUILY CANABIAN,— 
 
 THIS IIUMBI-E CONTHTBUTION TO CAVAVUAH LrrEBATUJtE 18 
 
 (BY PERNI8SION) 
 
 RESPECTFULI.Y DEDICATED 
 
 BY HIS OBliIOED SBRVAKT, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
I 
 
 u .• 
 
 .5 
 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 36 
 46 
 
 The Feast of Saint Anne ^ 
 
 The Keiule/vourt of D'Anvillu ..wfg .... 20 
 
 The Heroine of St. John 
 
 The Haunted of Port La Joie 
 
 Bertram and Matleleine— A Legend of Port Royal . . 61 
 
 The Larft Witch of Shubenacadie . . . . . go 
 
 Undine— A Domestic Tale ' . . . . . , g^ 
 
 Notes to The Feast of Saint Anne 109 
 
 Miscellaneous Poem.s. 
 
 The Forest . . . .' , . , , , II7 
 
 My Shanty in the Wood 1 23 
 
 Be our Emblem the Lily ....... ije 
 
 Hurrah for Norland i^j 
 
 To the Woodthrush . • Ija 
 
 Gold-miners' Song ..,,,,,, iji 
 I would dwell by the Shore . ... , , .133 
 
 Serenade , . , i^e 
 
 Ever to Thee 136 
 
 Expatriated 137 
 
 Una 1^ 
 
 To a Child Sleeping . 145 
 
 Canada .••.,,,,,. lAy 
 
L 
 
ERRATA. 
 
 Page ao, line 15 ; for *' PoltJers " read Poitou. 
 
 Pago 27, line 10 ; for " battered" road tattered. 
 
 Page 31, line 12 ; for " there " read their. 
 
 Pago 37, line 20 ; for second " on " read and. 
 
 Pjige 43, line 16 ; for " CharnieH " road Charniae. 
 
 Page 54, lino 3 ; for " Beget " read Begat. 
 
 Page 64, line 20 ; for " canoe " read course, 
 
 Pago 76, lines 4 & «5 ; dele the full point. 
 
 Pago 78, line 4 ; for " llghtenlngs " read liohtningx. 
 
 Page 78, line 24 ; for " lonely " read lowly. 
 
 Page 82, line 16 ; for " Inparted " read imparted. 
 
 Pago 91, line to ; for *' who " read how. 
 
 Page 121, line 6 ; for *• soil " road aotil. 
 
 Pago 136, line 5 ; for " the " read thee. 
 
 Page 140, line i ; for *' are " read ere. 
 
 Page 142, lino 3 ; for " that " road the. 
 
THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE/ 
 
 
 ' Twas Sumniertido in Ooiiuinaliyboe s isle, — 
 That sentinel advanced of Canada, 
 To watch what conieth from the Atlantic main — 
 Which nomenclature meaiiinj^less, and mean, 
 And uninventive, hath ' Cape Breton' called ; 
 But which, beneath the loving sway of France, 
 The prouder title bore of ' Royal Me ! ' 
 As meet domain, or residence, of kings. 
 For Nature there has, with most lavish hand, 
 Spread forth her treasures both of soil and mino^ 
 And driven to its haven-girted shores 
 The exhaustless living wealth of teeming seas. 
 Providing all which industry reciuiros 
 To minister to earthly wants of man. 
 All meetly, too, is moulded and adorned 
 The casket plenished with such priceless gems ;^ 
 An isle whose variedly inviting shores. 
 Firmly against the ocean storms embattled, 
 Infold a very pearl of inland seas — ^ 
 
 Yet with a tide of ocean pulsating — 
 With ample room, and scope, and shelter safe 
 
8 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 To gather in the navies of an empire, 
 And there manoiuvre tliern in arts of war 
 In all the calm security of petuce ; 
 With broad, deep bays, whose smiling bosoms woo 
 The mariner, and not with treacherous face ; 
 And labyrinthine inlets, gemmed with isles, 
 That by o'ertopping promontories wind 
 Far into the deep recesses of the hills, 
 Where e'en the proudest bark that rides the main 
 May moor herself amid the growing pines 
 That spire as loftily as her tallest mast ; — 
 The sinuous margins ribanded with hills. 
 Oft towering grandly with a mountain mien. 
 Though clad in densest mass of greenery,— 
 Oft bending gracefully to sweet, low plains 
 Of swarded intervale, outspreading far 
 'Twixt buttresses of deepest emerald. 
 Or deep, wild glens, wherein the golden light 
 Is strained through foliage most deliciously. 
 Which woo the weary pilgrim of the world 
 To find a haven in their sohtudes. — 
 It is a land of beauties exquisite. 
 In lake and hill, dark glen and sounding shore, 
 And is to worshiper of Nature's charms, 
 A stately temple of a thousand shrines. 
 ' The gorgeously attired Acadian June 
 Had gathered up her multifloral robe 
 And glided from the sight of smiling hills, 
 
fHE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 In all her bridehood's sweetliness and grace ; 
 
 And now July, her sister more mature 
 
 And more voluptuous, in shady dell, 
 
 Lay dreaming in delicious lassitude, 
 
 By breathings soft of odorous twin-flowers fanned, 
 
 Or feasting with fastidious daintiness 
 
 On first-fruits luscious proffered to her taste. 
 
 The fervid splendour of the Summer sun, 
 
 That brightened all the shores of Lake Bras d'Or, 
 
 Was tempered by the gentle breeze which swept 
 
 Across the radiant deep from Barra Strait, 
 
 And from the azure mountains North and West, 
 
 And made a season all that sense could crave 
 
 Of cheering sunshine and of grateful air. 
 
 At Chapel Island, as that day drew near 
 
 When all the children aboriginal 
 
 Of all Acadia — mainland and isles — 
 
 Are yearly wont, in that blest isle, to hold 
 
 The Feast of their dear guardian, good Saint Anne. 
 
 In swarms of arrowy canoes they came, — 
 Flotillas dancing o'er the wide Bras d'Or, 
 And barks more ponderous, with sail and oar. 
 Equipped and managed with the White Man's 
 
 skill,— 
 From many an Indian village near and far. 
 The favored of their frequent shifting homes. 
 With names most musical in their soft tongue. 
 Though oft distorted into sounds uncoutlj 
 
10 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Ill false rehnement's blundering utterance, 
 Or changed for nomenclature meaningless. 
 From Malagwatclikit's mazy shores they came ; 
 From where Benacadie and Eskasoni 
 Are linked by hill and shore to deep Twecd- 
 
 mooge ; 
 From Wagamatkook's stream of golden sands, 
 Whykokomagh, — sweet nestling midst its hills — 
 And Boularderie, and mountain-girt St. Anne's, 
 And where, beneath Victoria mountains lone. 
 Looks Ingonishe upon the ocean main ; 
 And many another dell, and stream, and shore. 
 To those dark natives of the soil most dear, 
 In this last stronghoM of their fading race. 
 There, too, were gathered, though a scattered 
 
 few, 
 The dusky denizens from many a stream 
 And antlered woodland of the neighbouring 
 
 main. 
 And from the bounteous isle Epaygooit, — - 
 That seems to sleep upon St. Lawrence wave, — 
 And yet more distant, whilom Micmac lands, 
 From llichibucto e'en to Gaspe's shore. 
 There come the old and young of either sex, 
 From tottering dotard to the new-born babe, — 
 All bent to keep the Feast of good Saint Aune, 
 And still grave Council hold, as in the past, 
 When deeds momentous waited on their words. 
 
THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 11 
 
 But not alone the Tutelary Saint 
 And solemn conference on tribe affairs 
 Attract this thronging, yearly pilgrimage ; 
 For on this bossy isle, ere while and long 
 The sweet abode of solitude profound. 
 With homely chapel bare of worshipers, 
 Shall now be held a week's high holiday. 
 When games, and revels, and barbaric glee, 
 Untiringly from morn to latest eve, 
 Shall banish silence from these wooded shores, — • 
 Then let their tired reverberations sleep 
 Till Summer and Saint Anne's Day come again. 
 
 Far other crowds, too, throng this Indian 
 Fair, — 
 Of grave, or gay, by curious impulse led, 
 Or youthful love of novel merriment ; 
 Or of those moved by tender impulses. 
 Who make of gay Saint Anne's Day pretext good 
 For pleasant tryst beneath the greenwood troo. 
 The homes of many neighbouring hills and glens, 
 The fishing hamlets of far-stretching shores. 
 The sprucer dwellings of more distant towns, — 
 All added motley to the gathering crowd ; 
 And there, amid majestic even flow, 
 Of Micmac converse, softly musical, 
 Rang forth the gay, sonorous Lamjue d' Oil,^ 
 As heard in France a century agone. 
 With lusty Gaelic gutterals — the tongue 
 
12 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Which loves the name of Scotia, Old and New, — 
 Whilst English, mingling through the whole, was 
 
 heard 
 Like drone of bagpipe with the chanter's air. 
 
 'Twas in the strangely chequered revel's height 
 We beached our prow upon the Chapel Isle . — 
 A student party we, full of young life, 
 Though bearing manya laboring thought within, 
 A company of not ungenial souls. 
 Who 'd pre-arranged, in these bright holidays. 
 To explore, in all its charming secresies, 
 This many-handed Golden Arm of the Sea, 
 And — not to us the least of mysteries^ — 
 Learn with what pomp these Indians celebrate 
 Their Festival of Tutelar Saint Anne. 
 
 There, on that Bras d'Or-girded island's slopes, 
 And scattered by near shore of fronting main, 
 Ei)campment most incongruous met the eye, — 
 Of tapering wigwams robed in birchen bark. 
 With snowy tents of more pretentious air, 
 And ruder shelter still of greenwood boughs, 
 Fashioned in haste to meet a passing want. 
 In clustering groups, or scattered wide apart. 
 As may have pleased the errant dwellers' whim. 
 Amid them all-^around — on every side — 
 The many-shaded votaries of Saint Anne 
 Most sportively enjoyed their pilgrimage. 
 
 Its notes of merriment the bag-pipe screamed, 
 
THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 13 
 
 With deep unceasing undertow of drone 
 Reverberating from the wooded hills ; 
 The s(iueaking fiddle, fife, and tambourine, 
 Were worked with energy, if not with skill, 
 Accordeons shrilling notes in rivalry ; 
 Whilst lads and lasses, light of foot and heart. 
 Their pulses dancing, too, with Celtic blood, 
 Footed the gladsome reel, all bouncingly. 
 With might and main, as they would dance for- 
 ever ; 
 And oft, the admired of a crowd, was one 
 With autocratic aspirations fired — 
 Though ever with some rival doomed to cope — 
 Who would eclipse the world at " Highland-fling," 
 Or other wondrous tanglement of step. 
 The duskier dancers in their native style. 
 With full soled-stamping beat of moccasin. 
 Revolved in jerking pace their circle round. 
 To music of their own loud, mingled whoop. 
 Till meeting couples, on a sudden, whirled. 
 With shouts of laughter wild, and long, and laud ; 
 Or, waking to traditions of the past. 
 Essayed to reproduce for White Man's ken 
 The wild, fierce movement of the dance of braves, 
 With brandishing of knife and tomahawk, 
 And savage bounds, and fierce, soul-thrilling 
 
 yells 
 Which waken echoing terrors on the hills, — 
 
14 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 As wont their fathers when, in demon guise, 
 They salHed forth upon the path of war. 
 
 Yet other pastimes, too, beguiled the day : — 
 The race of Hght canoe o'er placid lake, 
 The nervous paddles flashing with quick light ; 
 The thronged foot-race on the uneven sward, 
 Where the lithe Indian, with pace of cariboo. 
 Seemed flying from his own lank, streaming hair ; 
 The bronzed urchins, in their scrimp costume. 
 Competing, with keen eye, to shoot and win 
 The frequent coin set up by generous hands, 
 Amid the cheering cry and ringing laugh 
 Most musical from mothers', sisters' lips ; 
 Whilst e'er the philosophical papoose. 
 Tight-swaddled in his cradle set on end, 
 Gazed solemnly on all the raoving scene 
 Unmoved, unsmiling, silent, an he were 
 A mummy of the Pharaohs just exhumed. 
 
 There, too, the stalwart rustics from the hills. 
 Contested keenly in athletic games, — 
 To toss the ponderous caber, put the stone. 
 Or throw the hafted hammers, great and small. 
 Or other feats of nimbleness, or strength. 
 Enlivening, to sound young-manhood's blood ; 
 Whilst ever laughter seasoned well the sport, 
 And stingless jeer and jest, in divers tongues. , 
 
 Three days had well nigh surfeited our taste 
 For rude and semi-barbarous revehy, 
 
THE FEAST OE SAJNT ANNE. 15 
 
 Though varied oft by houi's of calm delight, 
 
 With sail careering o'er the bright Bras d'Or, 
 
 Or roaming by its isles and sylvan shores, 
 
 To learn what secrets they to Science yield, 
 
 (3r beauties tempting mimicry of art. 
 
 But now most welcome increase to our troop, — ^ 
 
 Arrival looked for long, with longing eyes ; 
 
 For Alfred Vernon, with mother, sister, now, 
 
 Threw a new radiance round our cheerful tent. 
 
 The mother — one of Nature s queens — too rare — 
 
 Who walk the world not knowing rivalry. 
 
 As all unconscious of their magic sway ; 
 
 Whose subjects never of rebellion dream. 
 
 But seem to bow them to the gentle rule 
 
 Whose winning inadvertantly connnands ; 
 
 The illumination of her cultured mind. 
 
 That happy blending, all proportionate, . 
 
 Of genius' many gorgeous, rainbow dyes, - 
 
 Which marks the stainless light of Common Sense. 
 
 A freshness graced her womanhood mature. 
 
 Like bloom of fruited peach, mayhap more fair 
 
 Than e'en the splendor of its early flowers, 
 
 And telling of ripe sweetness stored within. 
 
 We all, with Alfred, felt, or claimed, a share 
 
 Instinctively in her dear mother heart. 
 
 Pauline, a glorious form of light and grace, — 
 
 A full-blown flower, yet moist with morning dew. 
 
 Yet, flower-like, unconscious of her charms, 
 2 . 
 
16 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Else veiling consciousness with artless art — 
 Suggested all her mother must have been 
 At her more tender age. A cultured mind 
 Was hers, uptrained with all a mother's care, 
 And bearing from that culture grateful fruit 
 In sweot companionship of each with each. 
 We looked upon her splendor as the sun's, 
 Its source remote from reach of us poor youth, 
 And made to glorify a basking world, — 
 Not by one selfish soul to be absorbed. 
 
 ' Twas on the very festal of Saint Anne's, 
 And cabins poured their ' reverend seignors ' forth 
 To grave and solemn council ; for, tins day, 
 Had they of all their tribe to choose a chief 
 In vain may I, unlearned, essay to tell 
 What spake the orators political ; 
 But speeches, actions, — all were dignified ;— 
 These, courtesy with gravity combined ; 
 And those, harangues of eloquence subdued. 
 The order of these Nature's gentlemen 
 Was all unlike the ravening eagerness 
 And clamorous spleen of white skinned hustings 
 
 men, 
 And well might kindle blushes on the cheek 
 Of those who boast the glories of our state. 
 Yet play the villain and the knave beneath 
 Our institutions representative. 
 
 Then, too, high, solemn mass was celebrate, 
 
THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 17 
 
 As fitting the occasion and the day, 
 
 With much of novelty, but less of pomp. 
 
 The dark procession— led by vestured priests — 
 
 Of living remnants of a fading past. 
 
 Each decked with all his barbarous finery 
 
 In honor of the Saint and Festal Day, 
 
 Wound slowly 'mong the straggling hillocks green 
 
 And wended up the homely chapel aisle, 
 
 With wailing chant, slow, melancholy, wild. 
 
 As 't were the death-song of a dying race. 
 
 Yet so expressionless and dull their mien. 
 
 That, if it veiled their sense of fallen state, 
 
 Mayhap, too, 'neath its blank indifference 
 
 And listless gaze upon religious rites. 
 
 As these were matters which concerned not them, 
 
 They felt the presence of most holy things : — 
 
 Be it not mine the puzzling task to reveal 
 
 The secrets of the Indian's inner hfe. — 
 
 But now the day's solemnities are o'er ; 
 
 And forth the chapel pours its motley crowd 
 
 To fire again the fitfu\ feu dejoie, 
 
 With hunting-pieces charged for good Saint Anne, 
 
 And hasten, with replenished will and glee. 
 
 Anew to feastings, revelry, and sports. 
 
 Now she whom we all fondly * mother ' called, 
 Who late presided at the simple feast 
 Of our own special, .far-fetched company. 
 
18 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 From our marquee's most honored seat, thus 
 
 spake : — 
 " My friends, you, doubtless, cannot but recall 
 That when, last Christmas time, 'round my poor 
 
 board. 
 And far from this most charming wilderness. 
 We planned this pleasant Summer pilgrimage, — 
 To meet thus, on this Feast Day of St. Anne, 
 Upon this island of the grand Brcas d'Or, 
 To see, if aught, with whjit rare ceremonies. 
 Or what of customs aboriginal — 
 Though lapsing fast, ' tis said, into disuse, 
 Like all pertaining to the Indian race- - 
 This holy day is honored, or still kept ; — 
 Thus having planned, ' twas said — and all ap- 
 proved — 
 That this our meeting were occasion meet 
 For pouring forth of novel, native song ; 
 That this our country's history, though young. 
 Does many a high, heroic deed embahn. 
 And many a thrilling tale of suffering. 
 And of adventures marvellous and wild. 
 Meet theme for most ambitious poet's lay ; 
 That even now, our simple, daily lives 
 Bloom forth their riches of unwritten poems. 
 To charm us with the odor of sweet flowers. 
 Would we but deign to gather and preserve ; 
 That, therefore, on this day and place of tryst. 
 
THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 19 
 
 Whoever could and would — for all arc free — 
 
 Should here produce some ballad — epic lay — 
 
 Or, lit the very least, some simple song — 
 
 But redolent of this our native land. 
 
 I claim exemption from this minstrel task ; — 
 
 Not that my days of poesy are past ; 
 
 For poetry irradiates silver hair 
 
 As well as sunny locks of happy youth ; 
 
 And yet — I deem my years are meet excuse — 
 
 I am perpetual audience. Who first 
 
 Takes up the native minstrel harp ? — My son, 
 
 On you I call to ope this court of song I 
 
 Then Alfred, smiling as if half abashed. 
 And with faint blush of modest diffidence, 
 Yet rising soon to confidence and ease. 
 With elocution neat and manly voice. 
 Poured forth this sounding lay historical : — 
 
THE RENDEZVOUS OF DANVILLE. 
 
 Fair smiles tlio morn o'er gay llochelle, 
 
 Beneath the cloudless sky of June. 
 The flags, o'er town and citadel, 
 
 Are dancing to the breeze's tune ; 
 And dances, sparkles, too, the ray, — 
 
 As flashed from joy's own rapid Aving — 
 Far o'er the bosom of the bay. 
 
 With ocean throbbings pulsating. 
 And well that haven's glowing tide 
 May swell with rapture and with pride, 
 So fair the burden that is borne 
 Upon its breast, this breezy morn, — 
 Such gallant ships those waters ride, 
 A monarch's and a nation's pride. 
 From Poitiers, Normandie, Bretagne, — 
 From every port along her main, 
 Stern France these floating squacbons drew. 
 In La Rochelle to rendezvous ; 
 No fairer, stronger naval host 
 E'er swept from gallant France's coast, 
 Responsive to the trump of war. 
 To bear her victory flag aftir. 
 And soon, beyond the Atlantic's roar, 
 On that New World's scarce trpddeu shore, 
 
TrtE RENDEZVOUS OF d'aNVILLE. 21 
 
 Where foresMhantled Acadio 
 
 Springs forth to meet th' cinbracing sea, 
 
 Shall thunders of that host be hurled ; 
 For there the haughty Albion 
 Unfurls her banners to the sun, 
 And dares essay to curb th' advance 
 To conquest of the sons of France. 
 Naw France shall swoop that daring foe, — 
 The prize that waits the victor's blow, 
 
 Dominion o'er the Western world. 
 
 Three score and ten th' Armada's tale 
 Their hlied banners in the gaij. 
 They now but wait the last conmiand 
 To bound away from Gallia's strand. 
 The ships, fast anchored in the Lide, 
 Now swaying, rearing, plunging, ride, 
 Like steeds arrested on mid-plain. 
 Impatient of the curbing rein. 
 The host who throng this gallant fleet, 
 Aglow with patriotic heat. 
 Are eager for the fierce emprise 
 Against the foe of centuries. 
 The veterans of Ponthieu are there, 
 Again the battle charge to dare. 
 Their king's behest and glory's liu-e, 
 From Fontenay and from Saumur, 
 Have youthlier bands of warriors pressed, 
 
22 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Who proudly doom tlioir fortune blest 
 To l)oar the j^oldon Jlefir de lys 
 To lands be^^ond the Western sea. 
 There, too, are sjanion stout and b(>ld, 
 Who tales of mighty deeds unfold, — 
 True sons of sires who eleft the main 
 With Jac(|ues Cartier and brave Champlain. 
 
 Lo, in the vanguard ship so tall, 
 Of all the fleet High Admiral, 
 I^a Kouehefouoauld the Duke D'Anville, 
 With lofty step and frequent wheel. 
 His pace responding to the train ,■ 
 
 Of thoughts careering through his brain. 
 And eyes suffused with rapture's light. 
 Surveys this pomp of floating might. . 
 Of all this kingdom favored peer, 
 The leal, the brave, the debonair, 
 The chosen of his kinti' to win 
 Lost Louisbourg, to France again. — 
 To win ? Ay, and avenge ! — to lower 
 Yon hated rival's lust of power, — 
 Sweep England's flag for evermore 
 From Canada and Acadia's shore. — 
 See fiery D'Estournelle on high 
 His pennant as Vice Admiral fly ; 
 Here, veteran Pommeril ; and there, 
 The bravest of the brave, Jonquiere, — 
 A hero of hundred battles, he, 
 
THE RENDEZVOUS OF d'aNVILLE. 23 
 
 In every land, on every sea. 
 
 Now o'er liochelle's life-teeming bay 
 There speeds the signal : ''Anchor weigh." 
 Hark to the sound of clanking pawl, 
 The loud command, the answering call ; 
 Now shake the clouds of canvas white, 
 Like sea-birds pluming for the flight ; 
 Now climb the sails the tapering mast, 
 And bond them to the swelling blast ; 
 Each ship before the welcome breeze 
 Now heads away toward Western seas. — 
 List to the cheery, loud " hurra !" 
 •' Vive la belle France /" and " Vive le Roi /"— 
 For thousands ' tis the last farewell 
 To sunny France — to La Rochelle. 
 
 Oh, dread is the tempest ! Where late was 
 the sky 
 All cerulean and sunlight o'erarching on high, 
 Now lowers a pall of deep Stygean gloom ; 
 And, darklier still, as if flying from doom, 
 The clouds, wild careering and riven, are whirled 
 Away to the bourne of th' infuriate world. 
 The winds — oh, the winds ! — how resistless — how 
 
 frantic 
 They speed o'er the boundless, dark-scowling 
 
 Atlantic ! 
 
 From ice-fields of the North now rushes the gale 
 8 
 
24 
 
 THE FEAST OF ST. ANNE. 
 
 And lashes the ocean with scourges of hail ; 
 And now from the E(][uator it raves back again, 
 And flings from its pinions the deluging rain ; 
 Whilst bellows the thunder, and lightning's red 
 
 glare 
 Illumines the cloud-cragged caverns of ^iv. 
 Tlie great ocean, in wrath to its uttermost caves. 
 Is upheaving in tumult of galloping waves, 
 Each wave like a mountain by earthquake just 
 
 riven. 
 Now headlong to yawning abysses deep driven ; 
 And the spume of the billow is hissingly cast 
 In the face of the ruthless and maddening blast. — 
 Oh, dread is the tempest ! The dark, raging main 
 Once more seems resolving to chaos, as when. 
 Ere the world was awakened from horrific sleep, 
 The Spirit of God walked the face of the deep. 
 
 Where now that gallant, mighty host. 
 Late sailing from Biscayan coast 
 In daring quest of victory 
 Afar on shores of Western sea ? 
 By storm unceasing beaten, battered ; 
 By wind, wayo, lightning, crushed and shattered, 
 That late proud fleet is rent and driven 
 Towards eve^t-y unwished point of heaven ! 
 From morn till night, each trembling bark 
 Flies lorn before the tempest dark ; 
 
THE RENDEZVOUS OF d'ANVILLE. 25 
 
 From night till morn, that tempest's coil./ nUt 
 But brings worse terrors, adds to toil ; iya*\ v/*v I 
 
 » 
 
 Week chasing week, relentlessly 
 Still wars the gale on maddened sea. 
 
 Brave sons of France, ye fear no foe 
 Of human form, nor hell below ; 
 But ah, how may ye now assuage 
 The dread Jehovah's wakened ranfe ! rh v 
 No stern resolve \ipholds your arms 
 To battle with the God of storms ! 
 
 Now where, from far Antilles' shore tn> 
 
 And ice-bound crags of Labrador, jift 
 
 The waves, rolled up o'er half a world, 
 Are fiercely each on other hurled, — ' 
 
 There wilder still the conquering gale M'^-tfi-fr ^hIT 
 Now wars, presaging drearer bale ; }• A 
 
 And here a remnant of that host, fyf. 
 
 Long shivered, maimed, and sorely tossed ^'fUirV 
 Still ken the lead of brave D'Anville. ,, aIT 
 
 Beneath the mightier storm they reel ; ' • '^^ 
 
 Away the sail from splintering mast ,,,?,,.'; ^r/ 
 Is riven by the relentless blast, ftitlr^ifi 
 
 And fluttered o'er the foaming seas, » hinnyinik 
 Like thistle-down by Summer breeze ; 
 And crunching waves and floating wreck ?('] 
 Sweep, fore and aft, each groaning deck ; 
 Whilst men in vain essay to cry 
 To God in their last agony. — 
 
20 
 
 THE FEAST OF ST. ANNE. 
 
 But what yon darker shades that loom, 
 Low scowling, on the horizon's gloom ? — 
 Yon sea of foam — dread — white as death,— 
 As if volcanoes boiled beneath ? 
 'Tis Sable's Isle ! Oh, Mother o. Heaven, 
 Now pray our sins may be forgiven ! 
 Dark Sable, terror's very home, — 
 More dread than Norway's maelstrom ! — 
 On — wildly on ! Oh, who now able 
 To ' scape the ravening wolves of Sable ? — 
 Go ask the bleaching bones that pile 
 The sands of yonder treacherous isle. 
 
 Morn smiles on broad Chebucto's breast ; 
 The winds, the waves are all at rest ; 
 And sweetly falls the golden light 
 Adown each rounded, woodland height, 
 Suffusing with a softer ray 
 The mingled tints of leaf and spray ; 
 For Autumn, with her thousand dyes. 
 Now flaunts her glories to the skies. 
 The damasked hills on every side. 
 Surround Chebucto's placid tide. 
 The trees along those shores may lave 
 Their foliage in the mirror wave, 
 Or Hsten, where embowered on high, 
 The ripple's softest melody, 
 Or wavelet dancing on the sand ; 
 
THE RENDEZVOUS OF d'ANVILLE. 27 
 
 But neither slope, nor dell, nor strand. 
 Denotes that ever heretofore 
 The foot of man hath trod this shore : 
 On every hand, 't is nature wild, 
 Pi'imeval, lovely, undefiled. 
 
 There floats now on Chebucto's tide. 
 Slow drifting in from ocean wide, 
 A ship— a spectre ship it seems, 
 Or like one seen in noiseless dreams, 
 Witli battered sail and broken spar, 
 As if escaped from direst war. 
 This shattered wreck, all lone and lorn, 
 Whose aspect flouts the smiling morn. 
 Still bears, as erst in far Rochelle, 
 The lilied flag of proud D'Anville. 
 No cannons rouse the solitudes— 
 The echoes sleeping in yon woods ; 
 No thunder tones the Admiral greet 
 Of welcome here from gathered fleet. — » 
 
 Oh, wearily, wearily passeth each day, 
 Here, on this glassy and silent bay. 
 Watching and waiting wearily >/i 
 
 For ships that come not from the sea. — 
 Where now that fleet — ten and threescore — 
 Which lately sailed from Aunis's shore ? — *"^^? 
 Their gallant men, whose hearts beat high 
 With a nation's hopes ot victory ? — 
 That fleet so brave ?— Ay, where ? oh, where ! 
 
28 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 That fleet is now with the things that were. — 
 
 But, no ; for still a stricken few 
 
 Here gain the place of rendezvous, 
 
 And, one by one, find long-sought rest ; ( S 
 
 On broad Chebucto's placid breast. — 
 
 Some say a score ; some, ten ; some, seven 
 
 In all, escaped the wrath of Heaven : 
 
 What mattereth it 1 Bruised, tempest-tost, 
 
 They're but the ruins of a host,— 
 
 Wreck of a nation's hopes, how lost ! .Mi // 
 
 Now, mark yon rowers, with feeble hand, 
 Who sadly wend to pebl)ly strand. 
 Slow bending to the oar, each man 
 Is wildly haggard, gaunt, and wan. *'** 
 
 Each boat is a hearse ; and the freight it bears 
 Is the corpses of them that have ceased from 
 
 cares. 
 The dying may the dead enfold, 
 Neath greenwood tree, in shrouding mold . 
 Though not in their own dear land, those graves 
 
 Will be better than ocean's slimy caves. 
 For grimly now, from ship to ship, 
 Stalks Pestilence. With murderous grij), 
 He dashes down the strong man's might, 
 O'ertakes the fugitive in flight ; 
 His grasp the bravest heart appals, 
 Who falls as meanest craven falls. 
 
 -m 
 
THE RENDEZVOUS OF d'aNVILLE. 29 
 
 The wildly glaring, fevered eye 
 
 Adds terror to delirium's cry ; 
 
 On every victim cankering sores 
 
 Distend agape their noisome pores 
 
 And bones obtrude through parchment skiti, 
 
 Plague-spotted, dark, and lank, and thin ; 
 
 Whilst shrieks of anguish fill the air, 
 
 With fainter moans of dull des[)air. 
 
 In vain the tented hosi)ital 
 
 Is spread beneath the greenwood tall, 
 
 Where softliest wakes the gentle breeze 
 
 The soothing melody of trees ; 
 
 For grasping, torturing, slaying still. 
 
 Defying leech's healing skill, 
 
 Kevolting evciy loathing sense. 
 
 Yet roams at large the Pestilence. 
 
 Now glides there in from neighbouring wild 
 
 The Micmac, Acadie's own child. 
 
 They come, all plumed and armed for war. 
 
 In stalwart bands, from near and far, 
 
 To join theirs to the might of France, 
 
 And drive the hated English hence. 
 
 For e'er since errant Poutrincourt, 
 
 By Port Koyal's delightful shore, 
 
 Kesolved that there should be his home, 
 
 Nor sought for fairer lands to roam, 
 
 And patriarch-warrior Mambertou 
 
 A convert to the cross did bow, 
 
30 
 
 THE FtiASt 0^ SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Whilst all his nation, young and old, 
 Were numbered of the Christian fold ; — 
 Since then, whene'er the Micmac horde 
 Has joined the hatchet to the sword, 
 It was as France's ftrin ally, 
 England's relentless enemy. 
 
 What rancorous fate, implacable, 
 Hath led thera to this charnel fell ? 
 Why wondering stay they, silent, grim, 
 To gaze at festering trunk and limb ? 
 Ah ! — now ! — too late they haste away ! — 
 The Plague hath marked them for his prey. 
 Confused they crawl to savage lair 
 And crouching yield them to despair, — ■ 
 Not to lament, or moan, or cry ; 
 But — Stoic to the last — to die. 
 
 On — on, with bateless virulence, 
 Still speeds its march that Pestilence ; — 
 From Canseau Cape to Port La Tour, 
 From Isle Royale to Baie Chaleur, — 
 Sachem, braves, and young and old, 
 Perish in its rancorous hold : — 
 Ne'er more shall Micmac's war halloo 
 Strike terror to the listening foe. 
 
 What maddening thoughts now whelming 
 O'er proud D'Aiwille's long tortured soul ! 
 All hopes — his own — his country's — crushed 
 No more I — his voice in death is hushed : 
 
 roll 
 
THE RENDEZVOUS OF d'ANVILLE. 1^1 
 
 He may not — cannot longer see 
 
 This scene of wreck and agony. 
 
 Now sadly booms the minute gun, 
 
 To tell that his last sands have run ; 
 
 And slowly o'er the breathless tide 
 
 The line of boats funereal glide ; •> V 
 
 And list ! — sad music, breathing low : 
 
 It is the dirge of Rochefoucauld. — 
 
 Why gaze, with horror and alarm. 
 These men upon that prostrate form ? 
 That form, which now the sight appals, — 
 It was there proud Vice Admiral's ; — 
 Stabbed to the heart, — now cold as stone, — ' ' 
 The blade that did the deed, his own :. "* 
 
 Thus — wrecked all hope — thus phrenzied fell ' 
 The fiery, dauntless D'Estournelle. — ""' 
 
 Disease, storm, death, have done their worst 
 For D'Anville's armament accurst. 
 
 Neath broad Chebucto's land-locked tide. 
 Where England's navies often ride ; 
 In inmost haven's deepest cove. 
 Dark mirroring the hills above, ' - m*^ 
 
 On whose surrounding steep inclines ' -^ -^ 
 
 Grey crags obtrude through bristling pines ; 
 Deep down, beneath thfe gloomy wave. 
 Behold a fleet's dark, dismal grave. 
 Half burled in their oozy bed 
 
^2 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNK. 
 
 And 'neath the watery field wide spread, 
 Where ever, ever writlie and s(£uirni 
 The snaky seaweed, slimy worm, 
 Their rotting timber's cavern 'd cl41s 
 All crnsted o'er with lifeless shells,^ — 
 'Mid ponderous guns and wave-worn stones. 
 There lie the hulks and scattered bones 
 Of that proud fleet which sailed away 
 From La Kochelle, that morn so gay. 
 To wrest from England's braving hand 
 Dominion o'er this Western land. — 
 Floats daily now, ' twixt sun and sun, 
 
 A sound these shrouding waters o'er ; — 
 It is the n:iorn and evening gun 
 
 Proclaiming England's power. 
 
 # 
 
 Where by Chebucto's Western strand 
 
 Most gently upward slopes the land 
 
 In terraces irregular. 
 
 With shallow dingles here and there ; 
 
 Whilst over all, for many a rood. 
 
 Extends a variegated wood ; 
 
 Where birch and beech droop o'er the fern. 
 
 As mourning o'er sepulchral urn ; 
 
 Whilst spruce and fir give answering sigh 
 
 To the aspen, whispering mystery ; — 
 
 'T was here (as old traditions tell) 
 
 The sons of France by thousands fell ; 
 
THE RENDEZVOUS OF d'aNVILLE. 33 
 
 Fell not by hand of mortal foe* — 
 
 The victims they of Heaven-sent woe. 
 
 Here sleep they ' neath these shadows lone ; 
 
 No cross, nor monumental stone, 
 
 E'en marks the spot wherein they lie, 
 
 Here, in their woodland cemet'rv : 
 
 To this unconsecrated hill 
 
 They followed the banner of D'Anvillc. — 
 
 Hard by a queenly city towers 
 
 Above Chebucto's swarminj^ shores ; 
 
 Its ceaseless hum and ring of trade 
 
 E'en reach this wood's sepulchral shade : — 
 
 The crowds its busy streets who throng 
 
 All speak the English tongue. 
 
 From out Chebucto's midmost deep 
 There rises grim an island keep, 
 With bastioned rampart girt around 
 Within the circling moat profound, 
 And bristling cannon ready set 
 Behind each frowning parapet, 
 To launch their thunders, dealing woe, 
 ' Gainst every rash, approaching foe. 
 High o*er that fortress' seaward verge 
 There waves the banner of St. George. 
 This island once to D'Anville gave 
 A sad, and low, and lonely grave*: 
 
84 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 This fort, where EnglaniVa banners flaunt, 
 Is D'Anville's monument. 
 
 All praised — of course —the well loved Alfred's 
 lay; 
 For we were not in humor critical. 
 Or feeling had for that fond tenderness, 
 IJke k)ve of mother for her new-born babe. 
 Which feels the poet for the cherished thoughts 
 That well in music from his lalx)red brain. 
 
 ** What might have been," — said Philip, silent 
 long— 
 " What might have been the after history 
 Of all this continent on which we dwell, 
 Had that same mighty armament of France, — 
 Which seemed invincible to human ken, 
 And made to crash by cumulative blows 
 And paralyse forever Britain's power, ' 
 Thiough every region of this Western world, — 
 Escaped the doom of storm and pestilence ! 
 Not only failed that charged thunder-cloud 
 To hurl one bolt against the pre-doomed foe ; 
 'T was fated e'en to maim the strength of France : 
 The Micmac nation, forest race allied — 
 Of whom we've seen, this day, some withered 
 
 leaves — 
 Drew in from D'Anville's dying followers 
 That which did only f!ail to annihilate. 
 
THE RENDEZVOUS OF d'aNVILLE. 
 
 35 
 
 
 The armada's fate is one of those which still 
 Might stfigger doubt in 'special I^rovidence '." 
 ''But, ah,"— here aMadam Vernon interposed,— 
 " Why speculate upon ' What might have been ' ^ 
 Enough, while Time is thundering at our souls 
 To know what was, and is, and is to be.— 
 Alas ! the visions of what might have been ! 
 Such perilous dreams oft bid the brain go mad." 
 "Then I," said Philip, "in such poor ballad 
 rhymes 
 As my untutored art commands, will tell / 
 
 What ivas~~'m naught miscoloring history :~ 
 A simple tale of rarest heroism, , s / 
 
 And of a deed of darkest, foulest crime." 
 
 
 i ■■ I' 
 
 iVr 
 
 '>'i ?-.;/: 
 
 ,'» .' 
 
 
 -1., 
 
THE HEROINE OF ST. JOHN. 
 
 *T was evening time in Fort St. John''; 
 
 The cheering light grow less and less 
 Above that habitation lone 
 
 Betwixt the sea and wilderness. 
 
 A starry calm did brood o'er all, 
 
 Beseeming Springtide's gentle birth :— 
 
 Ah, well that evening I recall, — 
 My last of peace, or rest, on earth ! 
 
 And save where Ouangondy's tide" 
 
 Foamed fiercely through its cragged gorge, 
 
 Flinging the meeting waves aside. 
 As in a headlong battle charge, 
 
 And filled the night with roaring sound. 
 
 Re-echoing from the hills afixr, 
 A hallowed stillness spread around. 
 
 O'er wood, and wave, and beetling scaur. 
 
 The ponderous gates were shut and barred. 
 
 As ever at the set of sun ; 
 The roll was called, and changed tho guard : 
 
 In truth that tusk was easy done ; 
 
THE HEltOlNE OF ST. JOHK. 37 
 
 For small in number was the band 
 
 That formed our little garrison, 
 Beneath Madame La Tour's command, 
 
 Within that fort so wildly lone. 
 
 But she — our gentle lady dear, 
 
 Our pride, our glory, and our boast ! 
 
 Oh, she was good and brave, as fair — 
 Her angel presence was a host ! 
 
 The flash of her commanding eye 
 
 Gave each man's arm the might of ten ; 
 
 And each would gladly death defy. 
 Her sweet approving smile to win. 
 
 'T was but two years agone — as now, 
 
 Sieur La Tour was on the seas, — 
 She fierce D'Aulnay did humble low. 
 
 Who vainly sought this fort to seize. 
 
 For long this region's curse he'd been. 
 Though sailing ' neath the Jleiw de Ijf/s, 
 
 To war on women, murder men, — 
 A robber fell on land on sea. 
 
 From Fort St. John he soon withdrew 
 Before our scorning, dauntless dame, , 
 
 With shattered bark and worsted crew, 
 To gnaw his dastard heart with shame. 
 
^8 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 And now, as going her evening round, 
 With all a sage commander's care, . 
 
 More lightly tripped she o'er the ground ; 
 More gay than w<^mted was her air ; 
 
 • 
 
 For she had heard, with joyous mien, 
 • That on the tide of Bale Francaise^ 
 A solitary sail was seen 
 
 To brighten in the sunset rays. 
 
 She fondly deemed that coming sail 
 To her a loved one homeward bore, 
 
 Long absent, tossed by sea and gale, — 
 The husband of her heart. La Tour. 
 
 For him her tender heart was brave ; 
 
 She loved the very earth he trod ; 
 lie was her world, to whom she clave; — 
 
 She held her husband next to God. — 
 
 'T is dawn ; but not such morning-tide 
 As we had guessed the eve before : 
 
 Armed ships within our harbor ride. 
 And armed men are on the shore ; 
 
 But these are hot the ships, or men, 
 That sailed with Sieur La Tour away : 
 
 Ah, no ; their vengeful chief we ken> — 
 Accurst D Aulnay de Charnise I 
 
THE HEROINE OF ST. JOHN. 
 
 Now quick the drum is beat to arms ; 
 
 We run the flag of France on high ; 
 The battle-fire each bosom warms jtiH. 
 
 And adds a light to every eye. in r^A. 
 
 And forth our lady chieftain came, 
 All fearless from her chaste alcove ; 
 
 But first she snatched from duty's claim 
 One moment for a mother's love ; — 
 
 I 
 
 One moment pressed her darling child, ' -^ 
 
 And kissed its slumbers with a tear ; 
 
 One moment more from warfare wild — rfl* 
 
 She breathed a brief impassioned prayer ; / 
 
 Then to the ramparts hied in haste, irt 
 
 To personate her absent lord, — nMi .^<IT 
 
 A baldrick o'er her sweUing breast, 
 And by her side a pendent sword. 
 
 With glowii)g cheek, and eye that gleamed. 
 
 And voice forbidding all alarm, 
 Yet graceful, beautiful, she seemed 
 
 A warrior in an angel form. 
 
 Her greeting from our gallant few 
 Kang cheerly on the morning air ; 
 
 They felt it joy to fight anew 
 
 For one so good, and brave, and fair. — 
 
 ,...1 
 
 I All 
 
 ; 'J, 
 
4^> 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Now dark D'Aulnay a parley seeks ; 
 
 Demands surrender of tlie fort ! 
 But, ha ! soon back his herald takes 
 
 An answer fearless, prompt, and short 
 
 » i 
 
 " Madame will hold this Fort St. John, 
 As she has held it once before. 
 
 Despite of every robber loon, 
 
 For France and for her lord, La Tour." 
 
 Then fiercely bellow D'Aulnay's guns : 
 And fast the crashing shot they throw : 
 
 The fire along our rampart runs ; 
 We give the assailai^ts blow for blow. 
 
 The booming shot, the smoke, the yell. 
 The thunder echoing from the wood. 
 
 Create the tumult of a hell 
 Where late was calm and solitude. 
 
 Tlirce daj^ D'A«lnay's beleaguering force 
 Assailed oar fort with might and main ; 
 
 To every wile he had recourse, — 
 To fail again and yet again. 
 
 In vain his fiercest cannonade ; 
 
 The battle storm we backward- rolled : 
 In vain the attempted escalade ; — 
 
 We held the fort and still would hold. 
 
 ;/ 
 
THE HEROINE OF ST. JOHN. 4l 
 
 No craven cry our lady heard, 
 
 Though small our band atid sorely pfressed ; 
 O je soul our every action spurred, — 
 
 Her lion's heart in woman's 'brea.4 ! 
 
 Yet there was one — we knew it not — 
 With cankering heart amidst tis there. 
 
 Who ever some dark, hellish thofuglrt. 
 Deep hidden in his bosom, bare, 
 
 I may not guess what dream he veiled 
 'Neath traitorous soil's d^rk panoplly ; 
 
 But aye methought ouv lady paled 
 When Ponce La Foret passed her by. — 
 
 'T was Easter morn. — A sudden cry ! — 
 Our every heart a moment quailed : — 
 
 " The guard ! — ^^quick — ho ! — the enettiy 
 Our ditch and parapet have scaled !" K^ii ii 
 
 Too true : a rampart's coin they'd won. 
 With skulking treachery for their guide ; 
 
 De Charnise himself led on. 
 With Ponce — the traitor ! — by his side. 
 
 With one wild shout of " Vive La Tour !" 
 We dash upon their bristling van ; , • 
 
 There waves our lady's sword before. 
 Herself unscathed by fiexid or mah. 
 
42 
 
 THE FEAST OF ST. ANNE. 
 
 Oiir headlong charge the foe appalled ; 
 
 They shrank; they staggered — turned for flight; 
 D'Aulnay a parley loudly called 
 
 And waved the craven signal white. 
 
 He vaunted his o'erwhelming force ; — 
 Our stout defence, he said, was well ; — 
 
 Our longer strife would end in worse ; 
 He offered terms most honorable. 
 
 Our lady viewed, with pitying eye, 
 
 Her band toil-worn, diminished ; 
 With heaving breast and deep-drawn sigh. 
 
 She slowly, sadly bowed her head. 
 
 Our keys surrendered, arms laid down. 
 We — penned and prisoned helplessly ; — 
 
 Then dark and vengeful was the frown 
 Of stem D'Aulnay de Charnies. 
 
 That demon in a human form, 
 
 Dark-soul'd, incarnate treachery, — 
 
 Now swore, with loud upbraiding storm, 
 The prisoned garrison should die. 
 
 Then laid his fiendish claw on me ; 
 
 Said one life only he would spare ; 
 That /, of all the doomed, should be 
 
 My comrades' executioner ; 
 
THE HEROINE OF ST. JOHN. 43. 
 
 Because, he said with mocking grin, 
 To reward the worthy was his pride : 
 
 My zeal and courage he had seen, 
 When fighting by my mistress' side. 
 
 My mistress, too, herself should grace 
 
 The spectacle so passing fair ; 
 He hoped a smile would wreathe her face ; — 
 
 She should a hempen necklace wear. — * 
 
 What demon, born of deepest hell. 
 My soul in that dark hour possest 
 
 With frenzy irresistible 
 
 To bow to D'Aulnay's stern behest t 
 
 f .-.^ 
 
 
 n 
 
 I had, in battle and in storm, 
 A thousand times confronted death ; 
 
 But now — death wore a maddening form : 
 I shuddering breathed the craven's breath. 
 
 I did the deed I cannot name ! 
 
 Oh, God ! that I should live to tell ! 
 I earned eternity of shame ; 
 
 I won the life that is a hell. 
 
 And she, dragged forth to bear D'Aulnay's 
 Curst master-stroke of torturing art — * 
 
 I could not — dare not meet her gaze, 
 Y^t felt it burning in my heart, 
 
44 
 
 THE TEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 No sound, or ittterance, passed her lips, 
 The while that awftil deed was done ; 
 
 As if her soul were 'neath eclipse — 
 
 Her beauteous form transformed to stone. 
 
 Then, with 'One long, loud, piercing shriek, 
 That form upon the earth she cast. 
 
 No more can B'Aulnay vengeance wrealk : 
 The herowe's heairt has burst at last. . 
 
 She sleeps by Ouaugondy s tide, 
 As sleep the good, the true, the brave, 
 
 With those who for her fought and died. 
 And with her found a happy grave ; 
 
 Whilst I — within my heart, a hell — 
 Must still roam o'er the world alone, 
 
 The story of nay shame to tell. 
 And iftouwi the heroine of St. John. 
 
 
 Pauline the ballad heard with flashing eye. 
 Which told that in her bosom's gentleness 
 The spirit slept of which heroines are made ; 
 Then smiled her thanks for tribute paid her sex. 
 " This ballad, too, suggests hypothesis," 
 Said Cudibeit. **Say not now: ^what might 
 
 have been '; 
 But had Madame La Tour but dared and died 
 In station not obscure — in tlie eye of the world, — 
 How would her fame ring down the aisles of time 
 
THE FEAST OF ST. ANNE. 45 
 
 As worshiped memory ! This ' would have been.* 
 Her woman's name would brighten history's page 
 With the Lucre tias, Joans d'Arc, of fame ; 
 For hers a heart all things to dare and do, 
 When love and bounden duty waved her on ; 
 Yet, even in our country's chequenedi annalay 3 
 She, who so nobly battled, suffered, died^ *s it! 
 And sleeps ' betwixt the sea and wilder.iies8>' 
 Holds place unworthy of her virtue's due;" * 
 Then followed rambling converse oni * w-oman's. 
 
 sphere,' 
 The 'intellectuality of sex,' 
 The clashing theories of * woman's rightts,' 
 Which needless 't wore that I should reprodwco./ 
 The sage conclusion, in which all concurred, 
 Was this : that woman's task of life, like man's. 
 Is, waiving rights, to dare to do, and do, J- w^4 . 
 With all the powers of her mind atidi lieant^ < f 
 Whate'er the duty of the hour demands. 
 Ignoring all cast-ii'on, social codes. 
 
 Augustin now caught up the note of Hongidi'.ft 
 A taciturn and sometime gloomy youtii. rtH; 
 
 Augustin was, who oft allotted studies ^'' '> lalX 
 Postponed for stolen draughts of mysticismi imH. 
 From those whOj of the old, or recenfc, times;^i -B 
 Essay to draw the v«il and formulate 
 Upon the secr«t8 of a spiritual world;;. i 
 
 And thus the legend' which he gave tO' vera® 
 Was colored with the tincture of his mind. 
 
'^HE HAUNTED OF PORT LA JOIE. 
 
 Why (loth old Marguerite shudder with awe 
 In her ruinous home, lierc at Port La Joie**, 
 
 In the darkest hour of dreariest night ? 
 Why dwelleth she here, so aged, alone ? 
 What meaneth that smothered and tremulous 
 
 moan ? 
 
 Why wander her eyes for an unseen light ? — 
 The distracted wind, like a hammer, falls 
 With fitful blow on the old, rent walls. 
 
 Till they crack, and groan, and sway, and 
 shiver ; 
 Now the black volleys of maddest rain 
 It hurls athwart the shattered pane ; 
 
 Now roars away like an ebbing river. 
 There old Marguerite still crouches alone, 
 On the broken floor, by the cold hearthstone, 
 
 And tremblingly signs the sign of the cross. 
 'T is not the terror of wind and storm 
 That palsies her crouched and shrinking form ; 
 That rustles her bleached and disheveled hair, 
 As if Winter snow-drifts were eddying there : 
 
 Her dread is not earthly dread, alas ! 
 A cold light over the cold room falls — 
 
THE HAUNTED OF PORT LA JOIE. 47 
 
 Through the fissured pane and the chinks in the 
 
 walls, — 
 A gliastly glare from somewhere without, 
 Brightening, and sinking, and swaying about : — 
 Well Marguerite that dread light kenn'd — ft fA 
 A Ian thorn borne by a dead man's hand ! — '* 
 A sound of trampling ! — distant^duU, 
 Borne through the tempest's sudden lull ; — 
 A measured tramp ; — it nearer comes, 
 To the doleful beat of muffled drums. 
 Stern words of command, too. Marguerite hears. 
 In a tongue to recall other lands and years ; 
 Distinctly terrible all ; they seem 
 Like thesounds one hoars in a nightmare dream, — • 
 Too low to waken the struggling sense. 
 Yet laden with horror and woe intense. 
 
 In the earthly tempest's breathing time. 
 On — on, like a Destiny, comes that tramp. 
 And the drum's deep throb, and the dull, dead * ' 
 stamp. — 
 
 " Halt ! — Front ! — Load and prime ! "— 
 That lowly tumultuous musketry rattle f T 
 
 That catcheth away the listener's breath ! r.^H 
 More dread than the charge and the thunder ot iVV 
 battle, ' / 
 
 That muttering threat of the coming death. 
 
 Like the warning sound of the fierce rattlesnake' 
 
 E'er its venomous spring from the eoYering bmke. 
 6 
 
48 
 
 THE FfiAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 " Make ready ! — Present ! "—in sepulcliral tone. 
 The cold light on the pane more bluely shone ; 
 Then a crashing, hollow, deadened sound. 
 Like a chamber exploded beneath the ground ; 
 A smothered shriek and one long, low groan, 
 Which tells that some awful deed is done ; 
 And the old house rocks, and door and sash 
 Tremble and creak to the rumbling crash. 
 Again through the surging storm is heard 
 That thrilling, deep commanding word : — 
 " Order arms I " — then a hollow thud. 
 Like the falling clod on a coffin lid. 
 That voice once more ; and the ghastly light 
 Has flickered and died in the gloom of night. — 
 Again that slow funereal tramp. 
 The muffled drum, and the hollow stamp, 
 Slowly retreating, away and away, 
 And th' uproaring storm has resumed its sway ; — 
 And Marguerite's prayer hath sunk to a moan. 
 As she bows her head on the cold hearthstone. 
 
 * 
 
 4t 
 
 * 
 
 Full three-score years have come and gone 
 O'er that skeleton house, there standing alone. 
 Unenclosed and unsheltered, just without 
 Where once there arose a stockaded redoubt, — 
 A thing of the past by which France would awe 
 The comers and dv/ellers at Port La Joie ; — 
 Full three-score years since Marguerite 
 
THE HAUNTED OF PORT LA JOIE. 49 
 
 First guided thither her weary feet, — 
 
 Long weary years, and dreary abode 
 
 For one of mortal flesh and blood. 
 
 All Port La Joio will siiiulderinff tell .'^ 
 
 Of some awful deed tliat there befell ; 
 
 Of unearthly sounds and sights to appal, 
 
 In that lone old house, at oven-fall ; / « 
 
 Of doings that mingle with midnight storm -'^ 
 
 To witness would curdle the life-blood warm. 
 
 Like murderer's corpse on gibbet swaying, 
 E'er unapproached by willing feet, 
 
 All save the bravest heart dismaying, 
 Is the dwelling lone of Marguerite. 
 
 ^^ ii ^ ^ ■» 
 
 'T is three-score years — ay, scarcely more, — 
 Since Port La Joie's wide-winding shore, — 
 As history and legend tell — 
 Rang to the Micmac battle yell, 
 What time a swarm of warriors swart 
 llaved o'er the waters from Baie Verte, 
 With all the quenchless hate inspired / 
 
 That dark Le Loutre's bosom fired. 
 Allied with troops of France's crown, 
 Led by Croisille de Montesson, 
 Sweeping the English foe before, I 
 
 As tidal Fundy's foaming bore — 
 Ensanguined wave by fury rid, — 
 lloUs o'er the sands of Cobequid. 
 
i >.- . 
 
 50 THB FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 And sudden as that wave rolls back, 
 Wreck-laden, on its scoured track, 
 So fled the murderous Souriquois 
 From sacked and pillaged Port La Joie. 
 Yet did not Croisille's soldiery 
 Back with their savage comrades hie, 
 But staid to hold in garrison 
 I'he post for wliieh they'd fought and won. 
 
 But 't is not England's late mischance, 
 The triumph of the arms of France, 
 Nor his own pride of victory. 
 That brightens stern Groisilie's dark eye ; 
 Yet fierce the rapture is and grim 
 Fate unexpected tenders him. 
 
 The cup of joy he now may quaff 
 Foams with red vengeance d^iep and fell — 
 With vengeance that might gladden hell, — 
 
 A joy to make the demons laugh. 
 The master-passion of his soul 
 At last hath stumbled on its goal, , , ,^ ,<^ 
 
 Long longed for, but desired in vain : 
 Long-brooding, rankling, raging hate. 
 At last, he, to the full may sate ; 
 
 . And he will do the deed of Cain ! 
 
 " The mockery of trial's o'er : 
 The judge hath sentenced Isidore 
 To death and to dishonored tomb, — 
 
 ^\ .;/■: 
 
THE HAUNTED OF PORT LA JOIE. 51' 
 
 Tlie traitor's and deserter's doom. 
 
 With English prisoners just seized, • uu^r, 
 
 Straight Isidore was recognized 
 
 As one who France allegiance owes, /i . 
 
 Yet mingles with his country's foes. /\. 
 
 'T is vain to plead that war's mischaiu^e • I iil • 
 
 Has thrown him 'mid the foes of France : . T 
 
 Slim pretext e'er noeds passions's thirst,— »* 
 
 And passion phrenzied — at its worst — * »<■♦?! 
 
 To snatch the slaking cup presented >: .'1l 
 
 Dorante, ail ravening, grasped hifl prey ; — 'f-' 
 
 One faltering hour might snatch away ^t 
 
 The draught for which his lK)Som })iinted. 
 The fettered prisoner's visage showed • a;? ; k\ t . 
 No suppliant in abasement bowed. 
 
 Sweet mercy's gift of life to crave : iUVt 
 
 To scowling brows he flung back scorn ; im ji 
 Defiance, too, of hatred born, ■ v.fjr ■ 
 
 The victim to his doomsman gave. ■/ 
 
 Though all who saw the twain would swear 
 One mother's womb that twain did bear * * 
 
 Yet neither spake the name of ' brother i' : x- 
 As if their hate with life was bred, 
 ThlX)ugh ages long inherited, vi hIJ 'a14«i fi 
 
 Each scowled his rancor on the other." — 
 
 Forth is the prisoner led to his doom, 
 
5S 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 In the bellowing storm and the night's deep 
 
 gloom ; 
 Lest a merciful fate, ere the new-born day, 
 May spirit the murderer's revenge away : — 
 And 't is not meet such a deed of dread 
 In the light of heaven be consummated ! — 
 To his cold bed of death, unconfcssod and un- 
 
 shriven, 
 Still tS one unforgiving, by one unforgiven, 
 Beyond the redoubt and the stockaded yard, 
 The prisoner is led by executioner guard. 
 He hears the dull tramp of their funeral march. 
 As already they trod o'er his grave's low arch. 
 And the words of command, — deep, hollow, and 
 
 hoarse — 
 To make of his manhood a quivering corse. — ^ 
 Now 't is Halt and Make ready : the dark Ian- 
 thorn's light 
 ' Flashes full on his face with its sickening 
 
 glare : 
 'T is the face of a spectre, so terriljly white. 
 
 Evoked from the darkness and death-laden 
 air ; ; 
 
 Whilst the black rains upon and around him fall, 
 
 As to wrap him already in funeral pall. 
 He stands erect, with lofty scorn 
 
 On curling lip, in flashing eye ; 
 As he the gift of life would spurn, 
 
THE HAUNTED OF PORT tA JOIE. 53 
 
 . And held e'en death in mockery. 
 The last commanding word he hears — 
 The last shall greet his mortal ears : 
 'Tis given, and quick — a crashing volley — 
 A sudden start — one moment's rally — 
 He falls — with one convulsive shiver, 
 The victim's soul hath passed forever. 
 
 In that one moment, of life the last, 
 What ftir-drawn vision of the past ' . 
 
 Shot, with the bullet, through his brain ? 
 And, by some secret sympathy, , • 
 
 The gazing murderer's inward eye ^''■ 
 
 Knew all that vision's surging pain ; ^ . 
 
 As if the intensity of hate — iJi- 
 
 As love's excess draws mate to mate — 
 
 Had made community of soul, ,^ i 
 
 In that dread ecstasy compelling '' '^^ 
 
 Twain memories of thought and feeling i vV. 
 
 In one tumultuous stream to roll. — ' "^^ 
 
 The lightning flash of memory .5 
 
 Recalled to murderer's, victim's eve ' ' i'ii 
 
 A vision bright of lands afar, Kr^* 
 
 By castled banks of sunny Loir ; — rri tr I'V)' 
 Two brothers skipping o'er the lea, , 
 
 All happiness and lamb-like glee, 
 With laughing eye and ringing voice 
 To make e'en wrinkled care rejoice ; 
 
 
&4 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Or, hand in hand, in graver mood, 
 
 As if their linked brotherhood 
 
 Beget too deep a tenderness 
 
 For childhood's language to express : — 
 
 Those brothers when maturer years 
 
 Brought manlier sports, less childish cares, 
 
 And passion's young and fitful flame 
 
 A deep and fervid glo^"^ became, — 
 
 Launched op that cl ac^ called the ivoiid, 
 
 And mid ito nyriad votaries whirled 
 
 Through Pleasure's fluttering, dizzying round. 
 
 In Fashion's grateful meshes bound ; 
 
 Yet, still, 'mid every heartless crew, 
 
 As brother dear to brother, time : 
 
 Anon, within a lofty hall, 
 
 The sunlight streams, through windows tall, 
 
 Upon the twain, with faces pale. 
 
 Bewraying, or portending, bale ; 
 
 With eyes — no longer softly bright 
 
 With love fraternal's gentle light — ■ 
 
 Bloodshot with rage and flashing fire 
 
 Of deep, relentlesss, quenchless ire, 
 
 And cursing lips, and writhing brows. 
 
 Each pressing each with phrenzied blows. 
 
 Till only a mother's wailing prayer 
 
 Prevails a double life to spare ; 
 
 The while a beauteuos maid stands by, 
 
 With wicked amik and mocking aye, — 
 
THE HAUNTED OF PORT LA JOIE. 55 
 
 A form whose wiles and witching grace 
 Might win an angel from his place 
 In Heaven ; then leave him passion-tost, 
 To writhe among the eternal lost. — 
 
 That maid, with smile so bitter-sweet. 
 Yet may have once been Marguerite. 
 
 Gone is that vista through the past. 
 
 Like meteor o'er the night sky streaming ; 
 And one Croisille is past all dreaming ; 
 The other, overwhelmed at last 
 With wakened love and fell remorse, 
 Lies groaning on a murdered corse. — 
 
 A wretched shred of miscalled life, — 
 Of inward torture, outward strife. 
 And prayers that hissed with savageness. 
 Availed not for that bosom's peace ; 
 When he and all his blood-stained band 
 Were wrecked on Anticosti's strand ; — 
 There knew the judgment meet of Heaven, 
 To life's last desperation driven. 
 In madness God and man defied. 
 And on each other preyed and died. 
 
 •5S- •«: * 45- * 
 
 The name Croisille is heard no more 
 On Port La Joie's now peaceful shore ; 
 Nor ever seen the flag of France 
 
 I 
 
56 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 O'er all that haven's fair expanse. 
 But still there dwells a lonely one 
 Within the precinct of the town, 
 Whom fame connects, in untold ways, 
 With mysteries of other days. 
 
 She seems a female anchorite : — 
 Her rambling dwelling's weedy site. 
 Hard by where stood the old stockade, 
 Now long prostrated and decayed ; 
 But whence she came, or when, or how, ^. 
 Not wisest gossips feign to know. 
 Her lofty majesty of mien 
 Might well become an exiled queen ; 
 Her ftice, her wealth of silver'd hair, 
 Are wrecks of beauty wondrous rare ; 
 Her soft low voice, her gentle grace, 
 The sweetness of her pale, pale face, 
 
 Denote a soul sublimed, subdued, 
 Yet still a bosom lacerated, 
 A shrouded heart that ever bled, 
 
 A grief pursuing and pursued ; 
 And ever her dark, brooding eye 
 Seems seeking visions far away ; 
 And when her lips e'en wear a smile. 
 
 It seemeth not the bloom of gladness. 
 But complaisance's harmless guile, 
 
 Or ev'n as if she smiled through sadness. 
 There dwells she lone, in humble weeds, 
 
THE HAUNTED OF PORT LA JOIE. 57 
 
 Immersed in prayers and pious deeds ; 
 
 And though her melancholy brow 
 
 And gentle voice, so soft and low, / 
 
 Might seem to yearn for sympathy. 
 
 And tempt her mystery to descry, 
 
 Some numbing presence 'round her flung 
 
 Checks every curious, prying tongue ; 
 
 And there is sealed in every breast 
 
 Some secret thought, some memory. 
 That will not — cannot be expressed, ; i 
 
 Or known, but to the All-seeing Eye. — ■ ^'•' 
 And ever as the changeful years ,1 i 
 
 She spent in penances and prayers, — /^ jhv ■ 
 And e'er as Time his tremors shed ' • 
 
 Upon her bowed and snowy head, — 
 And awful sights and sounds were known .^ jn^i 
 To float around her dwelling lone, 'M H^tr 
 
 More dark, and deep, and dread, became 
 The mystery clinging to her name. 
 Till speech was hushed and cheeks grew white 
 E'en at the name of Marguerite. ^. ^, 
 
 * ^^ * * ■■■>iv4tiH'f}ih. 
 
 Now Marguerite's last prayer is said yr^-^t--' 
 And she is numbered with the dead : r j,iij\ 
 
 The secret of her life she gave ■ 
 
 That greater mystery, the grave : 
 Whate'er her grief, whate'er her sin, 
 'T is all as she had never been, — 
 
i)8 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Her life, her death, her name forgot, — 
 
 The inevitable human lot ! 
 
 That lonely, rambling, dreaded pile, — 
 
 Her solitary home erewhile — 
 
 Hath disappeared from mortal ken : 
 
 New generations of new men 
 
 Have spread their homes, for many a rood, 
 
 Around and o'er where once it stood. 
 
 There rolls the busy city tide 
 
 From early morn till eventide ; 
 
 And yet around that haunted spot® — 
 
 Wherefore, unknown, or long forgot — 
 
 'T is said whene'er the cheerful light 
 
 Has passed into the gloom of night, 
 
 Then living men become aware 
 
 Of presences that fill the air. 
 
 Although unseen, yet felt with dread, 
 
 As spirits of the unhappy dead ; 
 
 And hear unearthly sounds which thrill 
 
 The bosom with an icy chill. 
 
 But most when midnight storms prevail ; — 
 
 Then, 'mid the tempest's roar and wail, 
 
 A light, as of a charnel lamp. 
 
 Spreads 'round a fitful, ghastly glare ; 
 And then is heard the funereal tramp 
 
 Of armed men in the troubled air. 
 Coming — coming — steady — slowly. 
 
 Bringing the sense of a coming doom, 
 
 vi /: 
 
 }■:.'/. 
 
THE HAUNTED OF PORT LA JOIE. 50 
 
 And the muffted drum, so melancholy, 
 
 Beating the march that leads to the tomb;— 
 The command, not given by earthly breath, 
 To the dead to renew the deed of death, 
 
 And the ominous rattle of musketry ; 
 Then a gleam that is not the lightning's flash ; 
 Then, hollow and deep, a volleying crash, 
 
 And a harrowing shriek goes up to the sky, — 
 A shriek, as of a parting soul ^ 
 
 Which murderer's hands have winged to 
 flight,- 
 A cry of more than earthly dole 
 
 That shudders through the gloom of night, 
 Curdling that gloom with horror; — then w ^i. 
 The midnight storm roars on again. *f>< J5 
 
 
 Augustin's legend evoked, amid its praise. 
 Much talk of weirdly apparitions, ghosts. 
 And presences occult, more like the strain 
 With which we shade the gloom of Winter's 
 
 night. 
 Than suited to the glorious, golden light 
 And laughing breeze of Summer afternoon. 
 But chiefly Frank— 'the dreadful child' of^ 
 
 called — 
 
60 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 The wit and wag of all our company — 
 With new-found gravity converse prolonged, 
 Affecting movement keen and awe profound 
 At this wild tale of glamourie, — 
 So guileless seeming 't were difficult to guess 
 If his emotion real were, or feigned. 
 
 " T would seem," — here Cuthbert said, — " our 
 friends have all 
 Eschewed, as burden of their numbered lays, * 
 What we, too rashly, ' the tender passion ' call. 
 Of Love, co-ordinate with passion's self, — 
 Which doubtless woke the first song of first of 
 
 bards, 
 As 't will the last of poet's latest lay — 
 Of Love itself, who can say aught that's new ? 
 Yet will I tell a tale of faithful love, ' 
 
 Adversity defying, sealed in death." 
 
 .■ \i 
 
 .-hmnvr..}" 
 
 -■«■»- 
 
ifh 
 
 BERTRAM AND MADELEINE. 
 
 A le(;end of port uoyal. 
 
 How sweet the Summer night o'er Port 
 ^ Royal l^^' 
 
 From where uproars the sombre mountain wall 
 Its rampart line against the Northern sky, 
 O'er valley, stream, and bastion'd promont'ry, ;*# 
 To nearer swelling of the Southern hills, : • ' 
 
 Repose in ecstasy the evening fills ! 
 A tenuous vapor, born of sunset beams,— i.^^^/i 
 So thinly blue, reflected sky it seems, ii4>'iti^ 
 
 Or evening's breath suspended in mid air — -.^M. 
 Rests floatingly upon that valley fair. ,h> (*^i. 
 
 The haven's self, a sea of diamond light ; 
 More brilliant in its rim of darkling night. 
 Untroubled lies, not e'en by night-breeze kissed, 
 But dimpling with the fulness of its breast. 
 Flashing and sparkling, as if with beams its own 
 Coruscant to outvie the westering moon. 
 And through that fertile vale its stream adown, 
 To fortress'd hill and little, clustering town. 
 There floats the odor sweet of tedded hay. 
 From fields that slumber since the sweltering day. 
 Voiceless the night and soundless, saving where 
 
62 
 
 THE FEAST )F SAINT ANNE. 
 
 A bell's low tinkle Hoats upon the air 
 From distant fields where rest the dozing herd, 
 Or cricket lonely chiiping from the sward : 
 With lighter step the sentry walks his round, 
 As loath to mar the silence so profound. 
 
 Such calm, such perfect peace now reign 
 around 
 Port Koyal, — Cape, and Bay, and bastioned 
 
 mound, 
 Imagination scarce can (h'eam that e'er 
 The demon, War, had raged through carnage 
 
 there ; 
 Yet o'er this lovely spot, first chosen lu)me 
 By either race beyond the Atlantic foam. 
 Have Gaul and Albion for a centvny warred, »' 
 As pledge of empire, victory's reward. 
 No other spot in all the Western world ; ;. 
 
 So oft hath seen the battle-tlag unfurled ;" y' 
 
 So often been the battering cannon's targe ; 
 .So oft the goal of headlong battle charge ; 
 So often heard the Indian war-whoop dread, 
 Or been by spoilers' ruthless hands bested ; i 
 So often borne, in war's alternate chance, 
 The flag of England and the flag of France. 
 
 E'en now this fortress, late by England won. 
 Is girt by toils to England's sons unknown ; 
 And danger lurks in every neighboring wood, 
 Where all seems peace and silent solitude. 
 
 1 5 
 
• I 
 
 liEllTUAM AND MADELEINE. 05 
 
 i 
 
 For now within the coasts of Acadie 
 Thore bideth one with ever watchful eye 
 To note whatever Enghind'h power befall ; * 
 
 Of all her foes the most implacable ; -^^ '■ 
 Heir of the daring, subtlety, and fire. 
 As of the name and title of his sire, — 
 That errant noble from the Pyrenees, 
 Who chose a home beyond the Western seas. 
 And, scorning love's ccmventional duress, * 
 
 Espoused a daughter of the wilderness ; — ■ *"' 
 Whom Abenaqui and Armouchequois, **' *' 
 
 The patient Etchemin, fierce Souricniois, '<^ • '^ 
 Alike obeyed, to serve through flood and fire,''*' 
 To reverence his wish, to dread his ire; - ' ^'^ 
 Less France's subject than her firm ally, ^»i*M'^'V'*V 
 New England's dread, the scourge of Acadie ; ' 
 A chief of Sachems chosen, yet no less *^* '• ^*' 
 The very tyrant of the wilderness ; '^^ 
 
 Whose name, through years of blood, a spell had 
 
 been 
 To friend and foe — the Baron de Saint Casthie." 
 Ho left OS Chief, to rule his savage state, * 
 
 Heir of . own and of his nation's hate; '" 
 To revel, like Irimself, in strife and slaughter; ' 
 This son of Sachem Madockwando's daughter. ' 
 
 i 
 
 Where Dauphin river, opening to the port, * 
 
 First laves the seaward glacis of the fort, '' '"'^ 
 8 
 
64 
 
 THE FEAST Of SAINT ANNE. 
 
 
 A bark canoe slides down the oozy bank , 1 
 
 All stealthily, 'mid grasses tall and rank, ? 
 
 And takes the dimpling wave as noiselessly ; 
 As wild-duck stealing from the fowler's eye : 
 As noiseless, too, its solitary guide ,., 
 
 His paddle dips within the ebbing tide. ,[ i. vr 
 Then Southward, close beneath the bank he 
 
 steers, • .. ,-, .. ...^/ 
 
 Lest some sharp sentry's eye, that seaward peers. 
 The skiff across that shimmering path descry 
 The lowering moon flings to his lightened eye. j >/ 
 When slowly, softly passed the fort, away ,, i 
 Tlie lone adventurer speeds him o'er the bay ; ;/. 
 With strong and rapid stroke the paddle plies, 
 The light canoe, as waked from slumber, flies, ». 
 The waters skimminijj like the winded swift, 
 When glancing downward from the Sununer lift 
 To brush, with feathered breast, the placid wave : 
 The tide scarce seems the flying bark to lave. 
 Soon Biencourvilles's low isle" is left behind ; 
 Nor e'er his arrowy canoe he once restrained 
 Till sweeping round, 'twixt hills and woodlands 
 
 tall, 
 He floated on the tide of L'Orignal.^^ i 
 
 More softly dips the swift-propelling l)lade ; • 
 The wanderer courts the lofty shore's deep shade, 
 And slowly follows up the narrowing gorge 
 To where the stream's impetuous discharge, 
 
BERTRAM AND MADELEINE. 65 
 
 Rushing and brawling from the mountain side, 
 Is lapped to slumber in the briny tide. 
 , There lands the voyager, 'neath forest dark, ,/. 
 And tenderly takes up his fragile bark, 
 Conceals it 'mid the brush and branching fern?. 
 Then towards the bosom of the hills he turns. 
 With stealthy step, quick ear, and peering eye, 
 And plunges 'neath the sombre canopy. 
 
 Vf ho speedeth thus away from fort and town, 
 To brave the dangers of the woods alone ^ 
 And what the cause of this mysterious flight. 
 Beneath the covering wing of silent night? 
 'T is Bertram, darling of the garrison 
 Of Port Royal, than whom no braver son ,/ 
 Of England, or her New World daughters true, 
 E'er faced a foeman, or a weapon drew. '* 
 
 With senses all alert and prescience keen, / }j 
 And ever loyal heart to serve his Queen ; 
 Mayhap too rash, e'er foremost in the attack, h 
 Ho e'en loved danger for the danger's sake ; 
 Yet spotless his honor as his sword was bright- 
 He was the beau ideal of a knight. , 
 With ripened manhood's culture, he, in sooth, 
 Still wore the form— had all the fire — of youth : 
 That fire it is which tempts him thus to rove ; — 
 His steps are guided by the light of love ! — i"*- 
 That passion which has overmastered all /,} 
 That ever held the human soul in thrall; r^ 
 
6.6 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 E'er since ; tlie world . cmotiunars young prime, — 
 As e'er it will nntil the end, of time; ' 
 
 Melts hardest heart and maddens strongest brain; 
 Life's greatest bliss ; yet oft, alas ! it^ Ixine ; — 
 With bond and free alike invincible — ■ 
 In gorgeous palace, as in lowliest cell ; 
 Which bursts through chains and bars, and laughs 
 
 with scorn 
 At every warning thought of reason born ; ■>- 
 Which mocks at danger, defying death— the 
 
 grave — 
 
 Perdition's ^elf — Uie loved to win, or save. 
 
 Who glideth forth from wild wood-fashioned 
 cell, . -t 
 
 At midnight hour, iu forast's deepest dell ? f 
 With listening air, she now a moment stands : 
 Near by,i;pon the ground, -He smouldering brands 
 Just flashing up a transitory glare, — 
 A flood of splendor 'mid the darkling air — ]. 
 Reveal a maiden figure lithe and tall, f- 
 
 The fulness of maturity withal, — ' 
 
 More gi'aceful form of perfect symmetry ,. 
 
 Ne'er charmed an artist's, or a lover's, eye. 
 The dusky tint that overspreads her cheek. 
 Enriching all its blushes, may bespeak. 
 Or kindred to these wildwoods' native fair. 
 Or long exposure to the sun and air. 
 
 
BERTRAM AND MADELEINE. * ^€7 
 
 ■ .,1 
 
 •J 
 
 The deep, rich crimson of her parted lips 
 May e'en the budding tamarac eclipse : 
 Black as the night that spreads around, her haib, 
 In linked braids, is ribanded Avith care. 
 There is refinement chisel'd in that face, — 
 In every outline gentleness and grace ; T 
 
 Yet there is something in her lofty air ^ 
 
 Which says her fired heart will all things dare ; 
 And oh, beneath the living, liquid light '» 
 
 Of those dark eyes, now peering into night — 1 
 'Neath all their witching, melting tendentess, ',/ 
 Which now irradiates her anxious fiice, 
 There slumber yet more active fires, which tell 
 Of imssions, vv-akened once, invincible ; i. 
 
 By weal, or woe, alike intensified — 1 
 
 A marching torrent, strong as Fundy's tide. '; 
 
 Her garb is that of daughters of the wild ; 
 But such as civilization's cultured child. 
 With tissues rich, but decoration chaste. 
 Would deftly fashion to the eye of taste. 
 From dainty moccasin to raven tress, ', 
 
 She seems a Princess of the Wilderness. — ■ 
 But seems ? Nay, is ; that maid is Madeleine, 
 The Sister of young Sieur de Saint Castine. 
 
 Her guard of dusky warriors lie around. 
 In attitudes relaxed, upon the ground ; I 
 
 As e'er their savage wont, no watch they keep ; — 
 Their mistress' eye alone hath banished sleepl^ 
 
•68 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 'T is not to list for step of prowling foe 
 She wanders forth with noiseless step and slow ; 
 ,*T is not, with yearning breast, to gaze on high, 
 Where sister stars are twinkling lovingly ; 
 'T is not to list the note of whip-poor-will, J 
 That whistles lonely from the neighboring hill ; 
 And yet some impulse irresistible 
 Her footsteps leads adown that woodland dell, — 
 A moving shadow now amid the shade. 
 Now lending radiance to moonlit glade. 
 And pausing frequently with listening ears. . ^ >"'' 
 At lenirth a well remembered note she hears. V 
 
 •It 
 
 As of a night-bird's low and lonely cry, 
 But seldom heard beneath Acadia's sky. — ' 
 It is the signal dear : — away, alarms ! / * 5 
 
 Now Madeleine is in her Bertram's arms, f* / 
 
 Their tale is one which hath been often told, 
 . In many a song and history of old ; 
 As oft it will, while throbs the human breast, r^' 
 And love infiituated builds her nest 
 Midst bristling thorns and venomous weeds of 
 
 hate. 
 The harsh world scorning and defying fiite. — 
 In time now past, for once had Bertram's star 
 Proved inauspicious ; and he, by chance of war, 
 Was taken in a treacherous ambuscade, 
 By hands of French and Abenaqui laid. 
 
BERTRAM AND MADELEINE. 
 
 The exultant foe his wounded prisoner bore -' 
 To that famed spot, by broad Penobscot's shore, 
 Where Saint Castine, within his dreaded fort, ». , 
 Long lield baronial, semi-savage court, ;*y^*^ 
 
 With many an errant son of French nob/esse, ,' i.jii 
 An 1 fiercer nobles from the wilderness ; .'J, 
 
 Where chivalry with savagery combined, f'ii// 
 Each interpenetrating the other's kind. ip 
 
 There Bertram first saw Madeleine's dark eye 
 And, seeing, knew he met his destiny. f > r,?^ -^'d J. 
 She saw in him the flower of soldierhood, ^||'r 
 And admiration fired her warrior blood ; / ^ 
 
 She saw him prisoned, wounded, in sore unrest, 
 And yearnfal pity moved her woman's breast ;,* 
 Soon ruth and admiration love bewray, ; m|^' 
 
 As rain and sunshine bring the flowers of May. 
 She tended him with kindest (;are and skill, 
 A prisoner favored, though a prisoner still ; 
 His restless captors often came and went, -i'^ 
 
 On warlike schemes and desperate raids intent ; 
 Yet Beitram staid, a captive and a guest, j 
 
 In Fort Pentagoet and Madeleine's breast. r'^' 
 
 There was a winning witchery in her grace. 
 
 As of the maidens of her father's race, ,._. . 
 
 •Ill 
 
 But with that unrestrained simplicity Ih 
 
 Which scorns the shallow arts of coquetry j I 
 And gives to love untrammeled all love's due, — 
 A heart all loyal, undefiled, and true, ,,^J. 
 
70 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNB. 
 
 ;; 
 
 ■ ?■■» 
 
 But welling up with passions deep and wild — - ' 
 Which proved the bl'»od of Madoclcwando's child. 
 She little recked that all who shared her blood 
 Held Bertram one of an accursed brood, 
 Whom none of them, or theirs, could ev 3r know 
 As aught save their uncompromising foe. 
 As little Bertram recked the lofty scorn . > 
 With which his haughty kinured, gentle born, 
 Would gaze on Madeleine, his dusky bride, . 
 His Indian Princess, and his bosom's pride. , 
 They bath, ignoring all futurity, -^ .>' 
 
 Lived in what is, — not for what is to be. 
 
 When Bertram was by late cartel restored 
 Once, more to wield his own and country's sword, . 
 Their parting glance concealed from others' eyes 
 Their inmost souls' united agonies, — 
 As 'ncath unclouded face of trackless snow ' - 
 The Winter torrent boils and raves below. 
 For each a heavenly sun had set in gloom ; 
 Y«t madly each defied the seeming doom, i' ; 
 
 And fondly hoped — nay, inly vowed amain, V 
 Their light of life and love should rise again, i:.] 
 
 No marvel 't was that fearless Madeleine, 
 The favored sister of young Saint Castine, 
 Should hold that restless brother company 
 In roaming thus the wilds of Acadie ; 
 For she with Saint Castine— both sire and son- 
 Had oft before on^ expedition gone. 
 
 
II 
 
 •c'.v 
 
 BERTRAlVI AKt) MAt)ELEtNt:. 7t ' 
 
 Though cultured as became a baron's child. 
 She loved the freedom of the forest wild : 
 She with a huntress' eye could draw the bow, 
 And skillfully could guide the light canoe ; 
 Well, too, the dusky warriors she could sway : 'l 
 They loved her father's daughter to obey. ^^. 
 
 Her message covert and mysterious sign, — ^ 
 Which keenest intellect could ne'er divine, 
 Unless long used a forest life to rove, 
 And tutored by the vigilance of love — 
 Have guided Bertram to the secret dell 
 Where now they meet with joy ioieffable. 
 
 •'*> 
 
 Vain task, beyond the eloquence of art. 
 To paint the scene, when heart meets loving heart 
 Long severed, still with danger girt around, 
 But now as one in long embraces bound ; — 
 The voice most musical, the long-drawn kiss, 
 The twofold transports of commingled bliss, 
 The fond caress whose thrillings never pall, ih 
 The elysian atmosphere suffusing all : — -^ 
 
 Who e'er hath truly loved must truly know 
 How vain the attempt its mad dehght to show ; 
 And ill as vain ; for e'er the bower of love : 
 
 Should to the world a sacred precinct prove.— 
 
 When, — where, — and how were they to meet 
 
 again ? — 
 
 Saint Castine might return — she knew not when. 
 9 
 
72 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 That brother — ever on a restless round — 
 Had late departed, — first to Minas bound : 
 His movements were uncertain as the wind, 
 And might to parts more distant still extend, — 
 To rouse the Micmacs and dull Habitants 
 To strike a blow for Acadie and France. — 
 These Habitants — here Bertram caught the word. 
 Were now forthwith to carry out the accord 
 As pledged by Subercase, in written terms, ^ 
 When Port Koyal succumbed to British arms, 
 And he himself was one of armed band 
 Who, two days hence, and by express conmiand, 
 Should progress make along the Dauphin side, 
 To enforce the rights by treaty guaranteed. — 
 
 A start — and silence instantaneous — hush! — 
 A soft, low whisper, as of rustling bush ; . ^^i 
 The snapping of a tiny twig, so faint 
 That scarce perceptible the sound it lent. 
 Like statues twain, in silence long they stood : 
 No further sound disturbs the solitude : 
 'T was but some curious squirrel, or vagrant owl, 
 Careering cautiously on nightly prowl. 
 Yet lurking dangers may around them tend : 
 Their hour of stolen ecstasy must end. 
 In silence was their parting ; breast to breast. 
 In true love's silent eloquence, they kissed 
 Again and yet again, with lingering eye ; 
 Then turning glided 'midst the gloom away. — 
 
 • f/ 
 
 I? Jn«i 
 
FlEItTUAM AND MADELEINE. W 
 
 With anxious eye the maiden glances 'round 
 Where lie her warrior <^uard in sh^ep profound : 
 One dusky form that eye may seek in vain : ,. 
 The hours speed on, he cometh not again, — ^^ 
 Fierce Loron, grim, and deep, and dark of soul, 
 With danger ever in his sullen scowl. 
 Now whither gone, by sudden mission prest ? — 
 A dread misgiving fills her troubled breast. 
 
 'T is day at Port lloyal : from fort and town 
 The morning mist, which, but an hour agone, 
 
 / Dawn-generated, like a silver fleece, ^.f 
 
 / Held all the valley in its close embrace, . 
 
 \ Is rent and lifted, floating o'er the hills ■ 
 
 And journeying to homes of distant rills. '* 
 The Summer sun his golden splendor pours 
 Along the Dauphin river's meadowy shores, : , 
 E'en making visible the fervid glare 
 That floats and trembles on the breezeless air. 
 Till, o'er the simmering valley's still expanse. 
 All life seems melted into breathless trance. , 
 
 I The boats that on the yellow Dauphin ride, 
 Float gently upwards with the rising tide ; 
 So faint the stroke the drowsy rowers make, i 
 That scarce a ripple follows in their wake. ',\ 
 That little armament was blithe and gay, it 
 And rang with many a laugh and wordy play, 
 When first, this morn, it sailed from Port Royal. 
 
 
74 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Tliougli not oblivious of duty's call 
 
 The armed band that small flotilla bore — 
 
 Of all the fort's brave garrison the flower, — 
 
 Yet now the laugh, the jest, the tale, are done ; — 
 
 E'en spirits most effusive, one by one, 
 
 Have sunk in dreamy languor 'neath the blaze 
 
 Of that high Summer sun's o'erpowering rays. 
 
 The boats are drawn within a brimming 
 creek : 
 A season brief of grateful rest to seek. 
 All hands, oppressed by noontide lassitude, 
 Make feeble haste to gain the inviting wood. 
 The arms are piled ; accoutrements, unbraced ; 
 And all deliciously the coolness taste. j 
 
 In bowered grots of deepest greenery, 
 Tliey lounge in straggling groups, composed and 
 
 free; 
 More active some the craved refreshment bring, 
 Or seek cool waters from the bubbling spring ; 
 "Whilst some, apart, alone, with closed eye. 
 On fragrant ferns, or softest mosses, lie. 
 To list the hot cicada, twanging shrill. 
 Or soothing music of the tinkling rill. 
 Or all the soul to revery release — 
 To dreams of distant home, aud love, and peace.— 
 
 A sudden roar, as of a marching storm ! — 
 Oh, death and terror, in most hideous form ! — 
 A rushing through the startled wood — a yell, 
 
BERTRAM AND MADELEINE. 75 
 
 As of a host of tknions burst from boll ! — 
 The rattle and the crash of musketry ; 
 And quick the shriek of dying agony I — 
 Too well that Indian war-whoop dread is known : 
 'T is Saint Castine who leads the assailants on ; 
 And, fiercely bounding through the smoke and 
 
 brake, I 
 
 With eyes aflame their burning wrath to slake, 
 And brandished tomahawk, and vengeful cry. 
 They hurl themselves upon their helpless prey. 
 The flashing hatchet crashes through the brain ; 
 The gory scalping-knife insults the slain ; — 
 Like sudden whirlwind is the dreadful charge ; " 
 Unchecked the savages their vengeance gorge ; 
 Surprised and stunned, Iheir unarmed English 
 
 foe 
 Are vanquished e'er they scarce can strike a 
 
 blow;^^ 
 To strive is hopeless and to fly is vain ; 
 Who either ventures mingles with the slain. 
 ^ Yet still a scattered, struggling few there 
 were 
 Who fought with all the courage of despair ; ' 
 And there, with dauntless front, still Bertram 
 
 stood. 
 With red right arm and keen sword dripping 
 
 blood; 
 The gasping forms around him prostrate laid 
 
76 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Proclaimed liow well ho bore that vcnj^ing blade ; 
 Yet, totterinj^ now and ftiint from many a wonnd, 
 Assailant new in Saint Castinc he fonnd, 
 Whoso death-winged tomahawk is raised on 
 
 high. — 
 i H^^ What sudden shadow flits o'er Bertram's eye? 
 'T is Madeleine who, like a flash of light, 
 Glides through the dread turmoil and thickest 
 
 fight;— *"*'' 
 
 With one raised arm the death-blow to arrest, 
 The other clasps her Bertram to her breast : — 
 **Stay, stay !— dear Heaven I —brother ! — Saint 
 
 Castine ! 
 Oh, stay thy hand ; and be this prisoner mine." 
 i^M ;iThe chieftain's arm drops harmless to his side : 
 He stands in sore amazement petrified : 
 Brief time had he, in that emotion's storm. 
 To call the chaos of his thoughts to form. — 
 
 A puff— a flash, from yonder thicket where, 
 With quenchless hate, dark Loron's eyeballs glare; 
 Swift speeds the hissing bullet on its path ; 
 It bears upon its wings a double death : 
 That missile, like the love they lived upon, 
 Hath two quick throbbing hearts transpierced as 
 
 one. 
 
 In that winged moment which, 'twixt life 
 and death, 
 Recalled a life-time with a passing breath ; 
 
HEUTUAM AND MADELEINE. ^ 77 
 
 When all the meniories of past joy and pain /t^jl f 
 Came ((uick careering thorough either brain, 'till 
 Ex[)eriences of struggling hopes and fears — ,/»,!( 
 The uprisen spectres of dei)arted years ; ■>im(7/^^'( 
 Unlike all else, such heavenly radiance shone 
 O'er that brief past since blent their souls in one, 
 That death no terror bore to either heart, w.M^ti j 
 Since, linked by death, they never more should 
 
 part. - , v'V/ 
 
 One moment she in Uertrani's eyes gazed on lyz/M 
 The dying love-light mirrored from her own, ■ 
 And smiled, and nmrmuring, — * 't is well — 't is 
 
 w(41 " 
 
 They tottered — closer pressed — and dying fell, u I 
 'Tis ivdl, indeed ! — to 'scape the trembler's 
 doom; liin'up H4< H 
 
 To see no horror in the gaping tomb ; . *; >^|. }if/ 
 To end, in one brief moment, dread and dole, 
 Commingling life-blood as they mingle soul, -. ./ 
 And shun that dreary desert of the heartj-rr,.!'// 
 A life bereft of all life's dearer part ; , o/wr: 
 The world and all its vanities to brave, : I 
 
 And wed in peace, though wedded in the grave ; 
 To live that changeless love that lives forever,i) »> 
 And l)lends in one the gifted and the giver. ; at'l 
 
 War's gory surges long have ebbed away 
 From every shore and vale of Acadie : -^m^ii^i 
 
 .ir 
 
78 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANI^fi. 
 
 The Micmac's prowess, which had long bestrode 
 The White Man's zenith like a thunder-cloud, 
 Hath, like that cloud when all its fury spent — 
 By suicidal lightenings gashed and rent, — ' 
 Been rolled unheedcMl from the brightening sky, 
 A waning shadow on the memory. ' ' ' 
 Time's e'er-creating, e'er-destroying hand ■ ' 
 Hath made A^cadia's self another land. ' ' 
 
 Where erst were field and hamlet scattered wide. 
 By many a river's fertilizing tide, 
 Kecalling quaintly to the ear and eye ^ • 
 
 An old Bretagne, Poitou, or Normandie, '* "' ' 
 Another race have spread — another tongue — 
 Unlike as from another planet tlung ; ' ;^ 
 And peaceful arts and labor's busy hand "^ ' ' 
 Have spread a brightening glory o'er the land : — 
 All, all is changed : even spots most famed, no ' 
 
 m'^re 
 Now k. ar the names which once they proudly 
 
 bore. 
 
 And Madeleine and Bertram, side by side 
 Sleep the long sleep, hard by the Dauphin's tide — 
 That placid sleep which never waking knows 
 To life's corroding cares and torturing woes ; 
 The violets, by Spring's first warm rain sent, 
 Their oft renewed and lonely monument. 
 The '.vind-harp, wailing through the chambered 
 
 grove, 
 
BERTRAM < U MADELEINE. 79 
 
 Breiitlies o'er their i^rave the requiem of love ; 
 And oft tlie maidens of the neighl)Ouring vtde ■ < 
 Kecount full tenderly their simple tale, 'i lPi>* 
 And point, Avith melting eye and lowered l)reath, 
 Where ISIadeleine and Bertram wed in death. . J 
 
 1 , . ■ . . . ' . . ■ ■ ■■ ' , Mil'' 
 
 We all he waded the lovers' piteous case ; / ' 
 But chief Pauline maintained, it was too sad /'' 
 That love so faithfid thus should terminate, * »' 
 E'en though perturbed in its fated course. ^ y '' 
 " Ah, no !" said Cuthbert, "their fate was typical. 
 These blissful issues of which romancers tell, •'> ' 
 Are merely jnctures drawn by kindly art ^ '{ffj'* '' 
 To win the gaze of sufferers forlorn • '^.'^ 
 
 From dwelling ever upon dismal lact. ^^^ - J\^- 
 Stern disiii)pointment is the rule of life; ",^yi 
 Our ha|)i)iest thoughts are those we know in 
 
 dreams." 
 
 V f 
 
 :h M. .•:'..:i't 1^' 
 
 ...;(-. ; '. / 
 
 " 'T is '•♦^range," said Madam, as in self-connnune, 
 "How i. ten youth sees more of gloom in Hfe'^'' 
 Than djirks the experienced eyes of wrecked 
 three-score!" '»hl^»r 
 
 Here Fiank impressively attention claimed : 
 Then, with most solemn mien and stirring tone,;— 
 Though with a roguiyh twinkle in his eye — .^^ |«' • 
 
 He told this weirdly tale of glamourie. — ^< 
 10 
 

 THE LAST WITCH OF SHUBENACADIE. 
 
 vf- ,, ■ .: '- r^'■^''^^^'' '■'.?''■■": ' rV" '' 'l^.i i'f, .■■'■.■"'•' *.*■ 
 
 :,' /i' < 
 
 Time was, e'er Steam, with hands Briaveaii, 
 And men whose faith is Nothingarian,— 
 Which never mystery acknowhidges— . 
 And Science, with its thousand ologies, ' ^ 
 And hot-house schools, and sapient colleges, 
 Had scared from their propriety , 
 
 All Black Art and deft Glamour ie ; - ^^ 
 
 Ere fay and gobhn had levanted ' " . 
 
 From every weirdly den they haunted. 
 Till even ghosts no longer stalk 
 In ancient church-yard's weediest walk, " 
 Or, restive, nightly hover where 
 Their murdered bodies are— or were,— ^- ^ ^ ^ 
 In atmosphere of whitey-blue, T i 
 
 As honest ghosts had used to do ; 
 But now, like morning callers, knocking ^:^ 
 (Familiarity finite shocking ! '^ !, , / f 
 
 Of that degree which breeds contempt, J'' 
 From which e'en sprites are not exempt) ^' 
 To let us know of their arrival ,— ^ 
 
 The latest ' spiritual world's ' ' revival ' 
 They prate of,--or their joys, their labors,— ^^ 
 Or else talk scandal of their neighbors 
 
THE LAST WITCH OF SHUBENACADIE. 81 
 
 . iv i \ 4 1 
 
 In heaven, or the other place, — . 
 
 And tell whose damned, or gotten grace ; 
 
 Time was, then, even in this same land. 
 We enjoyed our terrors at first hand. 
 No pretext had we e'er to choose . 
 
 Consort with foreign bug-a-boos, , 
 Importing from beyond the seas 
 And Old World sorcery-factories. 
 We had them all, from A to izzard, — '^ 
 
 Ghost, goblin, fairy, witch, and wizard — 
 All home-bred here and native, — what you call 
 The occult order supernatural. 
 
 Those i)almy days — whate'er that means 
 Of errant elves and Avitching queans 
 Nowhere i)roduced a surer crop , . ' ; 
 
 Of mischief from the devil's shop ; ' ' 
 
 Nowhere have oftener gobhns reveled, 
 Nor beasts domestic got bedeviled, 
 Nor imps, by hell's dark guile polluted, ' v 
 
 For sinless babes, been substituted ; ' '' ' 
 
 No where did Avitch with more alacrity 
 E'er mount her broomstick for a steed, 
 And hie away o'er hill and mead, ' ' 
 
 To hurry up some hellish deed, — 
 
 Tlian by the banks of Shubenacadie.^^ 
 
 
 Now all this Dalton Moore well knew, ' ' 
 And many a wondrous legend, too. . 
 
82 ' THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. ^H^ 
 
 » , I 
 
 » I 
 
 } >■ 
 
 Of ghastly deeds and witches' pranks ' ' *'^ -^ 
 About that river's haunted banks. ' -:' ^''"''• 
 
 Not i\mthe dreaded mystic evil : i-"".A 
 
 He swore he feared not man, or devil 
 He had a secret of his own ■ • » ^ ■ 
 
 Would foil the most malicious crone "' -' • 
 
 That jnacticcd under hell's diploma. ' >• 
 But 't was a secret he had won ' '• ' '■' 
 
 From a wandering Saint Crispin's son, — 
 
 From County Clare— near Ballycroma-;- 
 At Conley's tavern, one glorious night, ' '' * 
 When, after a doubly gallant fight, 
 
 To prove their friendship was true-hearted, 
 Brave Dalton stood a pint of rum, - 
 And, imposing oaths to keep it mum, 
 
 The witch-specific Dan inparted. 
 Yet Dalton, in his mildest mood, ' '^ t < ■' </ 
 Was death upon the whole witch brood, ' ' 
 And ever scorned, and jeered, and baited ' * ' 
 All scraggy beldams, whom he hated, , ' 
 Believing, in his inmost heart, 
 They practiced Satan's own ]>lack Art. "' ■ 
 
 Most odious butt of his suspicion, •*'''•'• 
 His frequent wrath, and eke derision, *•' ■ ' 
 
 Was Peggy Boan — oft forenamed ' Granny ' — 
 Whom more than Dalton thought * uncanny ' ; 
 For she was all that makes the crone, — 
 Old, toothless, wrinkled ; dwelt alone ; ^'^'^ 
 
 ' m: 
 
 ^^ 
 
THE LAST WITCH OF SHUBENACADIE. 83 
 
 In herbs and nostrum's much she prklod ; i. .'1 . 
 And when she wandered forth she guided 
 Her steps decrepit witl» a crutch. — yir .^^ii / 
 
 What more was wanted for a witch? . •<] i 
 
 Scene : nightfiill by tl»e river's shore ;^ ■' 
 There present, solns, Dalton Moore ; M; ' '/■ 
 
 A caldron, empty, huge — some brands j i w- J 
 Still smoking on the pasty sands ; * T't >'/ . • 
 
 An aged shallop, battered, scarred, '.I 
 
 Whose seams have just been newly tarred ; -li 
 For Moore — good man — could turn his hand 
 To work at sea as well 's on land. 
 To him arrives old Peggy Boan, r.xiU :„ fi , /.► 
 Just toddling homeward, quite alone, »iiii.< 
 From cosy tea and clack at will 
 With Goody Mason, back o' the hill. — 
 
 " So, ho ! there" — Didtoii h(jultur — ,!j|> 
 " You muttering old Jezebel, ^u-.^'i'^i 
 
 You've come to try some cursed spell .. , ^/ ;(, ,,- 
 Upon my schooner's new fit-out ! — - jt ).j| 
 Y^our beauty 't would improve, no doubt, 
 To paint it with this nice war ,)itch." 
 He twirled his pitch mop like a switch 
 
 And made a savage ' poke ' at her. — 
 Good Lord ha' mercy ! What is this ? — ; . 
 Moore heard a most demoniac liiss, , - 
 And in an instant nerveless sank ; — 
 
84 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 H 
 
 •• ,•!•■,} 
 
 To all his senses all was blank.— " '■ .i i^ 
 What next 1 Koviving with a shiver, t^iA 
 
 He, wondering, found himself afloat 
 
 Upon the rushing, roaring river,— 
 And not on raft, canoe, or boat. 
 
 But in such devihsh craft as never 
 Till now e'er mortal went to sea in ; ■ 
 For, face to fiice and knee to knee in, ».].!> / 
 With one he deemed the Devil's harlot,- - ?• 
 In that huge caldron, late his tar-pot, ' >• ,./• 
 He found himself —Dread plight to be in !, -I // 
 ,.„.. Now to right twirling, ,,, .. ;^ *.> I 
 Now to left whirling, 
 With a dizzying, confusing, duml»foundering 
 
 motion; ^V^*^^'-**: :.:.^^..>Mr.. .... «, 
 
 ; Anon undulating, tMV '^^ '- ■' * ' ^ 
 ^ Whilst yet sinuating, ^- ^'*^ - ^ «^ ' ''^ 
 Still wended its way the boiler towards ocean - 
 Without paddle, or oar, as if by its own wish- 
 Still wound its way through this infernal schot 
 tische. ... ^ 
 
 ' " Ha, ha, ha ! Ho, ho, ho 1 ' * ^- ,; 
 ' Merrily with the tide we go.— * ' 
 My hour of doom ^ .^ 
 
 .\mM*rif^ Will soon have come ; 
 
 3 f / 
 
 But this night power is given to me :';^^" ,^!'^ , j 
 
THE LAST WITCH OF SHUBENACADIE. 85 
 
 » My hour of doom ;r •-(;<> jf^;/? 
 
 Is not yet come — « I '/J 
 
 Oii'j night for vengeance and for glee !" •^^ ij^H 
 
 Thus sang the behlam, Peggy Boan — ' " ' 
 Her song was laugh, and shriek, and groan ; * 
 Wliilst in the caldron Moore and she 
 Crouched, face to face and knee to knee. •' ;► > 
 The devil's answering", laughing roarvS, . j^ 7 :.M 
 From rocks and woods along the shores, .1 •; ^'^ 
 Poor Dalton heard and shraidv aghast, ,-.' Ui 
 His soul with speechless dread o'ercast. ^.1 '^fi 
 He felt his very blood run cold, ^ --?,< 1' , 
 As on the cursed caldron bowled -' . ; . ,.■ 
 By gypsum cliff so ghastly white, ^ ■ 'fi .«'/ 
 
 From which poor ruined Maggie Knight 
 Sprang headlong with her base-born child — ' 
 Moore now could hear her shriekings wild ; — = 
 Beneath the crags of 'Antony's Nose,' ,-»<'•: 
 Above which e'er a death-hght glows ,v *v,»r-it^// 
 The night before, within its view, ^ jilf' 
 
 The All-destroyer strikes anew — r.^k xrji > /> 
 Moore saw it glaring through the gloom, if 1 . j 
 And knew his hour had well nigh come ;-— : 
 Now round the point where, on the flat, / 
 
 Big Mick Malone and Charley Pmtt, 
 Fast clenched and mad with hate and drinking. 
 In quicksands sunk and still are sinking ;— 
 Now past where youths and maidens seven. 
 
86 
 
 MftTHE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. ■*'< 
 
 With songs and laughter mocking Heaven, 
 Whilst on the flood all reckless borne 
 Towards house of prayer, one Sunday morn, 
 Heard not the tide-rips' angry roar, ; i .: i 
 And were engulphed for evermore — ^ 
 But Dalton 'neath the eddying swell ■ • 
 Can hear their awful laughter still ; — .» •!• 
 Now by the opening dell's low glade, ' ' 
 With darkest fringe of beech wood shade. 
 Where oft was seen as 't is to night, — i 
 The spectre woman all in white, - f 
 
 Slow gliding o'er the herbage damp, 'i > r 
 And in her outstretched hand a lamp, ' •< 
 As if still seekimr to discover - * ; / . 
 
 o I 
 
 A priceless treasure lost forever. i' <{ 
 Now Dalton felt his hau* to bristle, - 
 The very death-chills 'round him rustle. 
 As swept they past ' The Eagle's Nest,' 
 About whose crai^s and wooded crest 
 The troops of ghosts, by violence made 
 Within that headland's farthest shade, 
 Keturn, in death's appcalling form, . ri. 
 And nightly awful rites perform. ? ,; 
 Again he sees Tom Moresby ride, >'r '^m^** 
 
 On coal-black steed, the rushing tide, -;!1 
 
 As when that madden'd wretch was seen, i i. ! 
 In yean long past, with fearless mien, Ir p >! 
 plunge boldly in from Maitland beach i v!<>';^ 
 
 i » 
 
 '{ 
 
 n 
 
 ■>f 
 
 I' 
 
 if 
 
 
 s 
 
 
 UK 
 
 ?i V/'Dl.r' hii/ 
 
THE LAST WITCH OF SHUBENACADIE. ^7 
 
 Tho far-off, facing bank to reach, ' " 
 
 And swore (so hoary gossips tell) •' • • •* 
 He'd ride to * Black Kock,' or to hell. t 
 
 Still rolled the caldron on its way, — 
 Now into Cobequid's wide bay. » ; ' • 
 
 And aye the ])eldam mocked and mowed, 
 And o'er poor Dal ton jeered and crowed. 
 And i)onred out, like a vengeful fate, 
 The vials of her long treasured hate. 
 Now skirting by the Masstown swamp, 
 Moore heard, through night-fogs dun and damp, 
 Tolling its own unearthly knell, , ,, ij ...w 
 The razed French chapel's ponderous bell,*^ 
 Long buried, — lost beyond recall 
 To longing eyes heretical. 
 The caldron now drew near the bank ' 
 Of slimy slopes and sedges dank. — ' 
 
 A stranded privateer's old hulk. 
 Hard by, upreared its hideous bulk : 
 Moore saw, with breathless terror staring, * ' 
 The lights through rotting timbers glaring, / 
 And heard within the boisterous revels, ; > 
 
 As 't were a feast of unchained devils, — ' '^ 
 The ghastly crew going through again ' 
 Carousals off the Spanish Main. ' ' 
 
 On land again, lo Dal ton Moore ! ' • /, 
 But cramped, bewildered, stiff, and sore. '• ' rf 
 The witch him by the foretop led : - nuli 
 
88 ' THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNB. . 
 
 She shook a bridle o'er his lioiul, -^ 
 
 With toothless griu and muttered curse, 
 And— presto ! Daltou Moore's a horse ! 
 The hag sprang nimbly on his back, 
 And plied her crutch with many a thwack : 
 Away then bounds the enchanted steed , 
 In furious haste— the Devil hath need. 
 
 " Here we go ! So merry, so merry ! 
 Up and down, through Londonderry I 
 
 My hour of doom 
 i.'j ;v Will soon have come ; ' 
 
 But this night power is given to me : 
 
 My hour of doom 
 
 Is not yet come — 
 One night for vengeance and for glee !" 
 Thus warbled again the old beldam her ditty. 
 To a discordant air which by no means was 
 
 pretty. — .■■ -- ^ .^...■-M.:.i..^- ., ^.^'' . .?-$-, 
 
 But how the old witch on her night gallop follow ? 
 First, Eastward away, over hill, plain, and hollow, 
 Past the stream— never after a river of fish— 
 Which is spelled Clii(janols and is called ' Ishgo-. 
 
 nish' ; 
 But soon she diverged from this route ; and the 
 
 cause why,— ,n^{s.\\ ^h^y 
 E'en the Devil himself would baulk at ' Slack's 
 ,„.^, Causeway.'^^ '^ mi 
 
THE LAST WITCH OF SHUBENACADIK. 89 
 
 Then up Dobcrt river and down through The 
 
 Follie; — ' • '•^' ♦•>«< f^ ■■'-'■' 
 
 For tlie steed it was dreadful ; for the rider (juite ' 
 
 jolly; • !' > ^.... " '*-V .vvl 
 
 As the former was constantly thwacked by the 
 latter, 
 
 The crutch keeping time to the hoof's rapid 
 clatter, 
 
 Whilst the 'kerchief and hair of the witch stream- 
 ed behind, . , v , , 
 
 As the pace of her courser outspoeded the wind. 
 
 Then away to Great Village, around and around ; 
 
 And away o'er the hills and the plains beyond ; 
 
 Up and down, about Port-au-pique, river and 
 shore ; — 
 
 Rode the beldam accurst on her bale-bearing 
 tour. — 
 But who can tell how oft she halted ? '^" 
 
 What sleeping homes her spite assaulted ? 
 
 How oft she jerked the cruel bit, 
 
 And from her panting courser lit ; ; ' ^^^^ * [\ i 
 
 Threw up the noiseless window^ sash, '/?<*:> 
 
 Or passed through key-hole like a flash ; ' ' ''^' 
 
 To wreak her vengeance-breathinf]^ sin. '• >- i 
 
 Upon the sleeping heads within ? 'f ' ' J* ** 
 
 What terrific dreaming 1 ' * ' i 3 
 
 What children were screaming ! 
 
 To say nothing of volleys of loudest blaspheming. 
 
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90 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 What coughs and what sneezes 1 
 What pains and diseases 1 
 •As the witch her poor victims so variously teases. 
 The cats miaule with madness ; 
 The dogs howl in sadness ; 
 All the milk in all dairies has turned into whey ; 
 From each sty, fold, and stal)le, 
 There uprises a babel 
 Of woes inarticulate, wordless dismay. 
 When the morning their hag-haunted owners had 
 
 stirred, 
 A pest there was raging through flock and 
 
 through herd ; 
 The dykes they were broken ; the marshes were 
 
 flooded ; 
 The fields of their fences were near half denuded : 
 The country side never such havoc did ken 
 Since the year of the gale, — eighteen hundred 
 and ten. — 
 
 The witch is by the shore again ; 
 Her steed is loosed from bit and rein ; 
 Again that steed is Dalton Moore, 
 But panting, foaming, bruised, and sore. 
 The iron vessel, too, enchanted. 
 Was there — just in the place where wanted. 
 The hag plumped Dalton in : — away ! — 
 Again on Cobequid's wide bay ! 
 Away how to the Southern shore ! — 
 
THE LAST WITCH OF SHUBENACADIE. 91 
 
 Again slio metamorphosed Moore : 
 From Biirncoat Head the hag he carried, 
 Who all the sleeping country harried, 
 By Noel Bay, to Salter's Head ; — 
 Nor here her task infernal staid. 
 Again the hellish craft is waiting : 
 They now, the rising flood tide taking, 
 With speed anew when back from sea, 
 Wind up the Shubonacadie. 
 
 But who recount what woes attended 
 That homeward trip ? What vessels stranded ; 
 What cables broken, anchors lost ; 
 What boats capsized in tide-rips tost ; 
 What lives to swift destruction hurried ; 
 What cargoes washed away, or buried ; 
 As sped the hag on tidal bore — 
 So great was never seen before ! 
 And aye, as nearer home she wended. 
 The witch's hatred grew more phrenzied ; 
 Nor tongue, nor pen, can ever tell 
 The horrors of each devilish spdl ^ 
 
 She threw 'round all her hated neighbors ; 
 Whilst ever to her hellish labors 
 Must hapless Dalton lend a hand. 
 Obedient to her weird crutch-wand ; 
 Until man, beast, and bird, whether sleeping, or 
 
 waking, 
 All felt that the Devil his pastime was taking. — 
 
92 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 But, list ! a cock crows, — of morn's heralds 
 the first : — 
 There's a crash — sure the Devil his boiler has 
 
 burst ! 
 There's a scream, harsh, unearthly — a brimstony 
 
 smell, — 
 And a laugh that is very suggestive of hell— 
 
 'T is morn. Lo, Mistress Dalton Moore 
 Walks searchingly the river's shore. 
 She finds her husband there, alone. 
 Exhausted, well nigh speechless, prone ; 
 All splashed and smeared with mud and mire ; 
 With swollen tongue and mouth on fire : *» 
 
 His soles and palms all lacerated. 
 As they on flint rocks had been grated ;— 
 Was never mortal in such dismal plight 
 Unless hag-ridden through the live-long night. — 
 But what of his night rider, Peggy Boan ? 
 No eye, save Moore's, e'er saw that ancient one 
 Since that dread eve from Goody Mason's door 
 She hobbled forth, as I have told before. 
 She passed, but left a name which cannot die, 
 As last, lost Witch of Shubenacadie. 
 
THE FEAST OP SAINT ANNE. 03 
 
 Loud peals of laiiglitci shook our airy tent 
 When Master Frank his eklritch tale had tokl, 
 AU hough Augustin wore an air of doubt, 
 As he misgave his muse was trifled with. 
 And much of playful banter passed around, — 
 Of crown of bays to decorate Frank's brow. 
 Or even — meanest mockery of all — ^v 
 
 To grace his essay with ' a vote of thanks ;" 
 At which the youthful bard cried : — " Hold ! — 
 
 enough ! 
 Derision's riot could no further go." 
 
 " Who next will venture in the lists of song ?" 
 Asked Madam Vei-non with a smile. " All done?" 
 Long silence was tlie answer ; till Pauline, 
 The crimson light suffusing cheek and brow. 
 Announcement made that thrilled our listening 
 
 hearts : 
 She, too, had dared to humbly court the nuise. 
 Though unambitious was her simple thome, — 
 An unadorned tale of girlish love. 
 Then, purling in smooth numbers, soft and low. 
 Her sweet voice wedding music to the verse. 
 Flowed from her lips this tale of young ' Undine. ' 
 
 4t 
 
at! 
 
 UNDINE. 
 
 (a domestic tale.) 
 
 When Goddess Si)riiig dissolves the icy chains 
 Which tyrant Winter long hath bound on earth, 
 
 Her fetters melting in sweet, pitying rains, 
 And calls the prisoned streams in laughter 
 forth, 
 
 And decks in bridal splendor hills and plains ; 
 Whilst airy choristers, with silvery mirth 
 
 And sweetly mingling chorus, from the grove 
 
 Sing their new song of liberty and love ; 
 
 • 
 
 And morning softly breathes a golden calm, 
 All things suffusing with a happy thrill;— 
 Then through all human breasts there steals a 
 
 balm. 
 
 Their yearning hoUowness with peace to fill. 
 To soften care, to soothe each sobbing qualm, 
 
 To banish e'en remembrances of ill ; 
 Till, in sheer sympathy with Nature's bliss, 
 We know a season of mild happiness. 
 
 Thus ever, like such morn of brightest May, 
 
 Was young Undine's blithe coming welcomed 
 Where,— sloping gently Southward to the bay, 
 
UNDINE. d$ 
 
 Begirt with hills and many islanded, 
 Where come the Atlantic waves to romp and 
 play,— 
 
 Lay staid and worthy Arnold's neat homestead, 
 Betwixt the wooded hills and sunny sea. 
 Adorning both and nestling lovingly. 
 
 Her presence floated, to the charmed sight 
 With motion which was music to the eye. 
 
 Like noiseless splendors of auroral light 
 That nightly dance along the boreal sky ; 
 
 The Avitchery of her smile, as sunburst bright, 
 Could soften even sorrow's deepest sigh, 
 
 And melted round the tendrils of the heart. 
 
 Disarming wrath and bidding care depart. 
 
 'T was sweet to hear her bird-like carol trill ; 
 
 To watch the rippling of her golden hair, 
 Like sunlight shimmering on the laughing rill ; 
 
 Her form of rounded litheness press the air ; 
 To see her eyes, of softest hazel, fill 
 
 With tender light, or brooding shade, whene'er 
 The flooding — ebbing color on her cheek 
 Foretold the words her honied lips would speak. 
 
 She .ondly loved and was beloved by all 
 
 That breathed within — around her happy home; 
 
 The petted pasturers answered to her call 
 12 
 
96 tHE FEAsT of SAlNT ANNE. 
 
 Whene'er she pleased the smiling fields to 
 roam; 
 And troops of birds, with many a madrigal, 
 
 Around her glorious head would circling come, 
 The bounty of her gentle hand to bless. 
 Or court new pleasure in its soft caress. 
 
 The very flowers that grew beneath her hand 
 More sweetly seemed to lay their bosoms bare, 
 
 And odors breathed more exquisitely bland. 
 Than ever flowers that ever bloomed elsewhere; 
 
 So lovingly their beauties they'd expand. 
 As if they felt and owned a sister's care. — 
 
 She was a siinny fount of happiness, — 
 
 To all a blessing, blessed, and to bless. ! 
 
 A living freak of fortune was Undine, — 
 A joyous mystery in this world of tears ; 
 
 E'en in misfortune she had happy been — 
 Most dread misfortune of most tender years ; 
 
 For never had she father, mother seen. 
 
 Or, seeing, knew not their last dying prayers : 
 
 A tender babe she came to Arnold's home, — 
 
 A welcomed waif borne on the wild sea-foam. 
 
 For once, when tempest swept the Atlantic main ; 
 
 And ocean ordnance thundered on the shore ; 
 And wave battalions, mad with rage and pain. 
 
 With giant fingers cliff and ledges tore. 
 
UNDINE. 97 
 
 Then broke in hissing wrath, yet rose again, 
 
 As they would ceaseless rage for evermore ; 
 Within the gaping bay's now foaming jaws 
 A driving wreck was seen make sudden pause. 
 
 Brief time it wi'estled there with rock and wave; 
 Then splintering sank beneath their crunching 
 wrath. 
 Meanwhile young Arnold, with companions brave, 
 Sped forth their bark from out the surf's white 
 swath. 
 With hearts resolved the periled ones to save ; 
 
 And dauntlessly they dared the tempest's path ; 
 Dashed back — again they strove — and yet a^in ; 
 They reach the storm- washed ledge — too late ! — 
 in vain ! 
 
 Yet not in vain ; for, on a wave's high crest. 
 What seemed a tiny wicker cot they spied, ^ 
 
 Wliich lightly, as some birdling's downy nest. 
 Did o'er the seething billows shorewards rid^. 
 
 In quick pursuit the gallant oarsmen pressed ; 
 Soon Arnold drew the cradle to his side ; 
 
 When from within, awakening with surprise, 
 
 A smiling babe gazed sweetly in his eyes. 
 
 He bore the waifling to his sire's abode. 
 
 Where she was nursed by mother's, sisters' 
 love. 
 
98 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 As tiny claimant sent direct from God, — 
 An errant angel dropped from realms above 
 
 To whom they angel entortaimnent owed, — 
 A little, lowly. Heaven-directed dove. 
 
 Who from her ark miraculously sped 
 
 When all the other inmates perisho 1. 
 
 And she— whom they, as wave-born, called 
 Undine — 
 
 Grew up in beauty sweet and joyous health ; 
 Repaid their tender cares, as we have seen. 
 
 With beaming love— 't was all her orphan 
 wealth ; 
 And every inmost heart she glided in , 
 
 By some unconscious, winning, witching stealth, 
 As naturally as dawn displaces niglit 
 And fills earth's bosom with a flood of light. 
 
 For never was she of the boisterous brood : 
 In her life bounded less than seemed to float ; 
 
 Her lightest joyousness was yet subdued. 
 As it some trace of sadness did denote ; 
 
 And whiles she wandered forth in pensive mood, 
 Low warbling with unlearned, heart-welling 
 note. 
 
 Or sat in placid dreaminess alone, 
 
 As communing with a world was all her own. 
 
UNDINE. 99 
 
 Oft, too, she loitered by the lonely strand ; 
 
 Mtiyliap to list that sweet soul lullaby, — 
 The wavelets whispering music to the sand ; 
 
 Yet would she gaze afar with dreamy eye, 
 As if, beyond the waves, a distant land 
 
 She sought with winged vision to descry ; — 
 Perhaps, in thought's mirage to see that shore 
 Whence she had come — coidd see and know no 
 more. 
 
 Though in her sunny childhood's happy home 
 Undine was loved, caressed by every one. 
 
 She e'er, as by some tender instinct dumb. 
 To Arnold clung — his father's only son, — iju 
 
 And pattering by his side, the fields would roam; 
 Or, when the daily toil was o'er, would run 
 
 And clamber fondly to his manly breast, 
 
 To nestle there and find her sweetest rest. 
 
 There came a time she felt it were not meet 
 To longer claim endearments as a child. 
 
 Then from her heart there welled a love more 
 sweet. 
 That kindled into rapture Avhen he smiled ; 
 
 Which felt afar the coming of his feet. 
 
 And heard his voice with bosom throbbing 
 wild ; 
 
 And Arnold knew it not : who ever knows 
 
 The point of time when opes the budded rose ? 
 
100 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 He all unconsciously her young love fed," 
 Nor ever of her maiden fancies dreamed ; 
 
 He deemed her still a child by whimseys led ; 
 And, 'though grave, cold, and passionless he 
 seemed. 
 
 His youthful heart already wordless bled 
 For one forever lost, and little deemed 
 
 Undine the secret of his heart had known, 
 
 Yet learned it through the love which filled her 
 own. 
 
 She yearned to smooth the troubles from his brow; 
 
 And with the thought her girlhood passed 
 away : 
 She felt that slie was all a woman now. 
 
 To soothe, to comfort, and to love alway 
 That manliest m|^n, towards whom her bosom's 
 glow 
 
 Leaped forth and trembled with intensest ray ; 
 And would from that white bosom pour a balm 
 To fill his aching heart with sweetest calm. 
 
 *o 
 
 But secret love aye feeds upon the heart, 
 Though girt in silence by a frozen zone ; 
 
 Scorns all the labored witcheries of art. 
 
 And wills to win through magic all its own ; 
 
 Holds even cankering doubt the better part, 
 Tlian live to know it lives to love alone : 
 
UNDINE. 101 
 
 Undine's fond heart thus wrestled in the strife 
 Whose hidden throes were sapping her young life. 
 
 A tender sadness o'er her soul was laid ; 
 
 The sunniest days all wore an aspect drear ; 
 Her robins and bobolinks, in sun and shade, 
 
 Poured forth their merriest notes to joyless ear; 
 In vain her pets' fond eyes — so seemed it — prayed, 
 
 In their dumb tenderness, her heart to cheer ; 
 Her climbing flowers peeped through her window 
 
 pane 
 And smiled on her, but saw they smiled in vain. 
 
 Then Arnold's father died : then darker days ; 
 
 And miscreants, self-styled , guardians of the 
 law,' 
 Who toil to bar the right and justice' ways. 
 
 Leagued with chicane to lay their hand — or 
 paw — 
 On Arnold's small estate ; with wildering maze 
 
 And meshes intricate to 'round him draw 
 Such web of guile he would be glad, in sooth, 
 To yield at last his money, life, or both. 
 
 And soon fair-weather friends their blandest smile 
 
 Chilled most respectably to icy stare. 
 And found that Arnold was a man of guile ; — 
 
 His pride should have a fall — 't was right and 
 
 fair. 
 
102 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 He but contemned the groveling pack, the while 
 He struggled bravely 'neath his load of care ; 
 But still the wounded bosom's deepest scorn 
 Is not the germ whence peace of mind is born. 
 
 Then sweet Undine, like a young giantess, 
 
 Robed in the dignity and light of love, 
 Uprose to duty, veiling her distress, 
 
 Her idol's angel comforter to prove ; 
 To cheer, — to brighten his heart's wilderness, — 
 
 The cloud of sadness from his brow remove. 
 And thus essay, her Arnold dear to save,^ 
 What one fond heart and little hand could brave. 
 
 Long was the struggle, flecked with smiles and 
 tears. 
 
 With care deep weighted — much of labor rude, 
 And hopes half blighted, and depressing fear^* ; 
 
 Yet with some melody of interlude: | 
 
 Oft, too, and long, as in her childhood's years. 
 
 Undine would rest, in still, abstracted mood. 
 As she some spell would find in thought profound 
 To make her halting world move smoothly round. 
 
 One morn, she told to Arnold's wondering ear. 
 
 With lips all eloquent and beaming smile. 
 How she had had a dream, mo:-^t strangely clear. 
 Of treasure buried on the ' Pirate Isle '; 
 How it did often and again appear — 
 
UNDINE. 103 
 
 Her sleeping vision of the brilliant pile 
 Of treasure, which might make him happy, 
 
 great, — 
 With proudest of the earth to hold his state. 
 
 Much marvelled Arnold that the sage Undine 
 Should be by such untoward fancies led ; 
 
 But she importunately oft again 
 
 The tale renewed to which her thought was wed; 
 
 She never on the ' Pirate Isle ' had been ; 
 
 Yet sure would know tlie treasure site, she said : 
 
 So long she pleaded, Arnold thought 't were best 
 
 To set her little anxious heart at rest. 
 
 Behold the twain upon the island lone 
 Tradition says was once a pirate's den. 
 
 Straight to an isolated boulder-stoxie, 
 
 In grassy glade, unpausing led her ken : — 
 
 It was the very spot her dreams had known ; 
 Beneath that stone the treasure lay ; and then 
 
 Stepped Arnold forth, with lever, mattock, spade, 
 
 To lay the illusion which those dreams had made. 
 
 Imi)atient in her zeal, the gentle maid, 
 
 In restless movement, and with liutterin<»* 
 
 breath 
 
 Persistent, ivould put forth her feeble aid, — 
 
 To her soft, lily hands' most cruel scathe ; 
 13 
 
104 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 And Arnold dug, and delved, and pry'd, and 
 swayed, 
 As he were sharing all Undine's fond faith ; 
 Till from its base the ponderous boulder hurled, 
 Revealed — the solid rock, old as the world ! 
 
 Alas, alas. Undine ! — now deathly pale 
 
 That late flushed cheek and eager, hopeful 
 brow. 
 
 From her white lips there burst a sobbing wail 
 Of heai't-wrung anguish, wordless, faint, and low. 
 
 Which told most eloquently how deep the bale 
 Iler bosom felt at disappointment's blow : 
 
 Then bending, trembling, tottering where she 
 stood. 
 
 Her tears gushed forth in one tumultuous flood. 
 
 Surprised and startled at this transport wdd, 
 He caught her in his gently folding arms : — 
 
 " Undine ! Oh, why so madly self-beguiled ? — 
 This strangest phrenzy tills me with alarms ; — 
 
 Pray, think no more of this, my dearest child ; — 
 No new calamity our quiet harms." — 
 
 " No, no ; I am not now a child," she cried, 
 
 And started with new impulse from his side. 
 
 She stood erect ; all pallor now was gone, 
 
 And deep carnation surged o'er neck and face ; 
 A strange light 'neath her dewy eyelids shone, 
 
imDiNE. 105 
 
 Half anger, yot subdued by tenderness ; 
 And (juick and sobbingly her breath was drawn 
 
 From parted, rosebud lips all tremulous, 
 As from a passion which she could not speak, 
 Though from the inward storm her young heart 
 brake. 
 
 Then, in a moment, Arnold saw it all, — 
 The love-born secret of that inwivrd strife ; 
 
 A thousand memories did that light recall, — 
 Sweet intertwined through his and Undine's 
 life: 
 
 ThLt moment, too, did all his hCiart enthnill 
 To that deep love linked with the name of wife ; 
 
 For oft one ray of momentary light 
 
 May wake to life emotion infinite ; — 
 
 As when the spark, from blow fortuitous, 
 Alighted 'mid the powder's torpid grain, 
 
 Evokes the flame explosive, tyrannous. 
 
 Which for long years has latent slumbering 
 lain. — 
 
 *' Undine, there needs no paltering words with us," 
 Ho said ; — " Come to these longing arms again : 
 
 I love — oh, how I love thee !— Wilt be mine ? — 
 
 My darling wife — my very own Undine ?" 
 
 "Oh, Arnold ! — I am thine — forever thine I" — 
 He strained her closely to his 'raptured breast, 
 
106 THE FEAST OF SAINT ^ WE. 
 
 And gazed into her eyes' soft light divine, 
 And burningly her lips and forehead kissed : — 
 
 *' Oh, I deserve not that such love were mine ; — 
 That I by these white arms should e'er be 
 pressed : 
 
 Forgive me, dearest ; that I did not know 
 
 This torrent frozen in my heart till now. 
 
 " Fool that I was ! to grope 'mid sordid mire. 
 With paltry cares my bosom to distress. 
 
 And dream that in the heartless worldling's hire 
 Lay ever one true germ of happiness ; 
 
 Whilst in thy silent love was all desire 
 Could have to light my blinded soul to bliss ! — 
 
 Thy dreams. Undine, were of prophetic love ; 
 
 For here indeed I find the treasure-trove." 
 
 Thus Aniold did a hidden treasure find, 
 
 As sweet Undine in love-taught slund^er 
 dreamed : 
 
 They trod life's journey with one heart and mind; 
 Their way a flower-strewn path they over 
 deemed ; 
 
 Love, all subduing, made e'en fortune kind , 
 And wedded life with them was all it seemed, — 
 
 A long-drawn rapture, each irradiated 
 
 By that unclouded light the other shed. 
 
THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 107 
 
 When ceased the music of Pauline's soft voice 
 To drop its sweetness on the thirsting ear, 
 We each and all, by simultaneous vote — 
 Although we'd met not to contest for palms — 
 Decreed, and all effusively decreed. 
 Of all the day's new-blown poetic blooms 
 Hers was our gathered posy's fairest flower ; 
 And straight resolved, as least of homage due, 
 To crown her Princess- Victor over all. 
 Then busy hands in haste the garland wreathed, 
 Of many a coil of Trailing Evergreen, 
 With tendrils of Linnoea intertwined, — 
 Each tiny flower nodding 'neath the weight 
 Of its delicious fragrance. Then Pauline 
 Was laughingly enthroned and crowned ; whilst 
 
 all 
 Made humble court and bowed obeisantly, 
 With words of homage met with smiles, till she. 
 With wave of sceptre-fan of odorous fern. 
 Declared the pageant ended. Her mother then : 
 " Hill shadows stealing over wide Bras d'Or 
 Announce the near approach of coming eve. 
 To close a day to me — I trust to all — 
 Enjoyed, and long to live in memory, — 
 One, let us hope, we have not lived in vain. 
 , I thank you, friends who, faithful to our scheme 
 As pre arranged, have cheered this day with song. 
 May oft your native lyres be strung again ! 
 
108 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 And now we separate for wdys diverse : 
 Our most delightful meetings end in parting, — 
 The saddest of life's trials. Alas, this day, 
 Like every other, ne'er can be renewed ; 
 But e'er regretful parting leaves the hope 
 Of meeting yet again. Be ours that hope. — 
 " For you, Sir Faineant,"— here she bowed 
 tome — 
 " On you the task I strictly do enjoin, 
 That you our doings of this day record 
 With true and faithful pen ; so, hereafter, v 
 
 We may from fading memory recall 
 How we did keep this Feast day of Saint Anne'' 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Note i.— " The Feast of St. -.-Inrtf' ."— paRe 7; Hue i : 
 
 The Anniversary FcnHt ol" Snint Aniie du Cdnada— the t\vonty-8lxth 
 day of July— lis that of tlic Tutelary Haint of the ('aiiadian Aborigines, Is 
 still the great day of the Indians. Chapel I«land—Ha named from tlie In- 
 dian R. C. churcli erected upon it -is prettily situated Just within tiie 
 most Houtlieru Arm of Bras d'Or Lake, and alwmt seven miles from HI. 
 Peters, in the island of Capo Breton/— <jr " Onnuniahgiiee," or "Isle 
 Iloyale," by wliich names it was respectively known by Its aixirlginal in- 
 habitants and by its subsequent French occupants. This Chapel Island, 
 with a tract of the opposite mainland, comprises one of the ' Indian lie- 
 serves' Of Nova Scotia. Here— and, the author believes, liere alone, 
 throughout the Maritime Provinces, if not throughout Canada — tlio Feast 
 of Ht. Anne is still celebrated by the Indians of unmixed race — what re- 
 mains of the once powerful Houricfuols, or Micmac, trilie— with somewhat 
 of its pristine eclat. The sports and festlvitiea customary on the occasion 
 are usually kept up for a week, or ten days, and are witnessed, or partici- 
 pated in, by large numbers of whlte-skinncd visitors from the neighbour- 
 ing settlements, and often from remote distances. It is said, however, 
 that the occasion is celebrated with much less spirit and by a more 
 meagre attendance, whether of devotees, or spectators, than in earlier 
 years. 
 
 Note 2.—" And from the heauteovs isle, Epnygnif."—p(^^'i 10; line f? ' 
 
 ■Epaj/guitt or Epaygooit."— Prince Kilward Island. The meaning ns 
 We are told, is : " It lies upon the water," or " It floats upon the water ;" 
 and when used to designate that beautiful island, as It must have appear- 
 ed from a distance, when wooded down to the water's edge, was happily 
 applicable, as the Indian names invariably are. 
 
 Note 3.—" Rang forth the gay, sonorous Langne rf'O^J."— page 11; line 25: 
 It is lioped that the mass of our readers will pardon an explanation 
 which may still be juiceptable to a few. In former times, the whole people 
 of that aggregate of communities which are now collectively known as 
 France, were distinguished and classified according to their mode of pro- 
 nouncing the word wlilch In its modern form Is, Oiti— " Yes." Those of 
 the North were designated "tjangue d'Oti ;" those of the South, the 
 " Langue d'Oc." The latter expression still survives in the name of the 
 most Southern Province ot France. The sedentary population of the 
 island of Cape Breton, and esiiecially of its .Soutliern section, consists 
 mainly of people of French, and of Scottish Highland, descent ; and 
 both classes continue to use their Mother tongue as the ordinary meaub 
 uf iutercommuulcatiou with their own particular compatriots. 
 
no 
 
 Notes. 
 
 Note 4.—" This i/iland once to D'Anvillc gave 
 
 A sad and low, and lonely graved — page 33 ; line 36: 
 
 The tradition Is that the Due D'Anville was interred upon George's 
 Island, now mainly covered by Fort Chariot e.onQ of the principal de- 
 fences of Halifax harbor. The main Incidents of this most disastrous 
 expe'ditlon are familiar to every reader of American history ; although, 
 as to details, great discrepancies exist between the divers accounts. The 
 English accounts state that D'Anville committed suicide; but this Ik 
 denied by the French. It is undisputed that D'Estournelle died by his 
 own hand. Tradition— whether correctly, or not— still Indicates that part 
 of Bedford Basin In which a portion of the shattered tleet was sunlt. 
 There Is a spot on the Western shore of the same Basin still called— "ffhe 
 French Landing;" audit Is l)elieved that the encampment was in thtit 
 immediate vicinity. 
 
 Notb: 5.—" Fort St. John,"— page 36 ; line 2 : 
 
 Fort St. John was on the right, or Carlton, bank of the river St. John, 
 near its mouth and near what Is now recognized as the head of the harbor 
 of the same name. At least su(!h was tha site of the fort occupied by 
 D' A ulnay de Ciiarnise, years after tlie events referred to in the text; jet 
 an expression of Denys— a very honest but not always very perspicuous 
 writer— all'ords ground for belief that La Tour's fort was somewliore 
 nearly opposite "Navy Island," on what is now called the Portland shore 
 of the harbor. 
 
 Note 6.—" Ouangondy's tide." — page 36; line jo: 
 
 "Ouangondy,"— the Indian name of the river St. John. 
 
 Note 7. — '* Bate Francaise."— page 36; line 6: 
 
 The " Bay of Fundy." There seems no ground to doubt that the pre- 
 sent name, "Fuady," originated from the French of Port Koyal and the 
 Atlantic coast— speaidug of the settlements of Minas, Chlgnecto, Cobe- 
 quld, Ac, as at the fond da bale— at tiie "bottom of tlie bay." Their 
 English-speaking— and not Frcnch-sppaklng— rivals caught the words 
 fond du as the name of the bay. 
 
 Note 8.—" Port La Jbte."— page 46 ; line 3 : 
 
 Such was the designation of Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island 
 under the French dominion. 
 
 Note 9.— 'Mnri yet around that haunted spot.''— page 58; line n : 
 
 GoBsip Rumor still whispers— or did whisper, not many years since— 
 of the spot In Charlottetown where, at the midnight hour, may yet be 
 heardghostly voices uttering words of military comiiand, and the mys- 
 terious sound of the resulting evolutions. 
 
 Note 10 — '* — — Port Royal."— pago 6t ; line 3 : 
 
 It may be scarcely necessary to «ay that Port Royal was the former 
 name of Annapolis Royal, which latter name was conferred— out of com- 
 pliment to Queen Anne— shortly after the Peace of Utrecht (1713). Port 
 Royal, or Annapolis, has the distinction of being the oldest continuoiiH 
 
NOTES. Ill 
 
 European settlement in Nortu Aruerlca, North of St. Augustine, In 
 Florida. 
 
 Note u.— " JVb other spot in all the Western tvorld 
 
 So oft hath seen the battle-flag unfurled dtrc."— page 62 ; lines 
 
 [14 A 15: 
 To say nothing of unimportant hostile demonstrntlons and trivial 
 aflUirsinits vicinity, Port Koyal,or Annapolis Royal, has, in its time, 
 sustained no loss than twelve assaults. It was token by force five times 
 l)y the English : by Argal, in 1613 ; by Kirk, in 1628 ; by Sedgwick in 1654 ; 
 by Phipps, in 1690 ; and by Nicholson, in 1710, It was by them abandoned, 
 i>r restored to the French, four times : by Argal, in 1613 ; by Treaty of Ht. 
 (lormaln, in 1632 ; by Treaty of Breda, in 1667 ; and by Treaty of Ryswiek, 
 in 1697. It was unsuccessfully attacked by the English i/irce times: by 
 Col. Church, in 1704; by Col. March, in June 1707; and by Col. Waln- 
 wright, in August 1707 ; It was unsuccessfully attacked by the French and 
 Indians twice: in July 1744 under the direction of Abbe de Loutre ; and 
 i n September 1744, under Duvivier. It was taken, sacked, and abandoned 
 twice : once by pirates, in 1690 ; and once by U.S. Revolutionary forces, in 
 1781. 
 
 Note 12.—" the Sai'on de Saint Castine ."—■page 63 ; line 20: 
 
 t)f the Barons de St. Castine— father and son— who fill so large a space 
 in the Canadian, Acadian, and New England history of their period, 
 Rameau (in his France aux Colonies) furnishes a graphic and admirably 
 condensed account. He says : 
 
 " One of thoir (the Abenakls') most notable chiefs was a Bearnese ad- 
 venturer, the Baron de Saint Castine,— a strongly marked type of the 
 adventurer-colonists whom France was, about that time, throwing off 
 into all parts of the world. A former captain of the Carlgnan regiment^ 
 which had just been disbanded in Canada, after the Iroquois war, the 
 existence of a Military Colonist in that country had doubtless appeared 
 to him too common-place and dull for his Bearnese temperament : he had 
 come then, towards 1670, across the mountains and through the savage 
 hordes, to install himself among the rocks and rugged ravines where the 
 Abenakis dwelt and where he could enjoy the full satisfaction of a life of 
 ambuscades, dangers, fighting, and pillaging. Brave, energetic, adroit in 
 all bodily exercises, of an adventurous spirit, and ready in resources, he 
 became, in a little while, the Idol of his savage hosts. His reputation 
 spread through the wilds, and he married the daughter of a chief. On his 
 appeal all the tribes of Acadia and of the frontiers or New England used 
 to take up the war hatchet and rally around his fort of Pentagoet, where 
 he lived as a sort of Baron of the Middle Ages, with some daring French- 
 men who had attached themselves to his i>erson. 
 
 "By himself alone hef retarded the English colonization of those re- 
 gions for fully thirty years. Every page of the chronicles of the New 
 England Puritanstjf that period, is filled with lamentations and Impre- 
 cations against this daring and terrible freebooter. About 1708, he took 
 his departure for France, to receive an inheritance which hod fallen to 
 him iu his own country ; and he left bis fort, bis band, and the pursuit of 
 
 14 
 
112 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 hlH expeditions, to the command of the eldest of the sons whom he had 
 had by his Indian Princess. 
 
 " This son showed himself the worthy successor of his father. Down 
 to 1722, long after the taking of Tort Royal by Nicholson and the conclus- 
 ion of the Treaty of Utrecht, we find him courageously striving against 
 the English. Cantoned In the bason of the Penolwcot and the Kennebec, 
 where he had brought the Abenakis together, he firmly held and pushed 
 his positions Into the English Colonies, a4;curding to the paternal tradi- 
 tions; but, whether lacking the skill, or tlie auda(;lous gotnl luck of his 
 father; or whether the English once masters of Aciulia, became after- 
 wards too strong for him ; they :Milslied by surrounding him and taking 
 him prisoner. Being so fortunate as to escape being put to death, he was 
 either released by the English lii Euro|>o, or he made his escape ; but ho 
 regained Franco, and arrived in tl.i-ie at IJearn, to inherit, In his turn, the 
 succession which old Haint CaeMne, his father, had Inherited, and which 
 his decease had just now re-opened. This position could not, )iowever» 
 give stability to the vagabond dl8i)osltlon of this worthy son of an atlven- 
 turous race; for. In i73i,we And him again with the Abenakis on the 
 frontiers of Acadia ; and it would not bo astonishing if his descendants, 
 or those of some of his brothers, had perpetuated the Basque line of the 
 Barons of Balnt Costlne among the wrecks of their adoptive tribe." 
 
 The elder Baron de St. Castlne married a daughter of Madockawando, 
 or Matekwando, an Abenaqul chief and had by her several children be- 
 sides the son who succeeded to his title. That son— Baron''Ansolm— was 
 married, at Port Royal, on the 31st October, 1707, to Charlotte D'Amours, 
 daughter to Louis D'Amours, Hieur de Ch,auirours,~ono of the several 
 brothers D'Amours who held, under the F'-jach crown, extensive posses- 
 sions on the St. John river and elsewhere in Acadia, and took a promin- 
 ent part In the events among which they lived. Young St. Castlne's sig- 
 nature to the registration of his marriage (which Is to be seen in the 
 Nova Scotlan Archives), Is a very gcntlamanly autograph, Indicating his 
 ability to handle the pen as freely as the sword, or tomahawk. 
 
 Note 13. — " Where Dauphin river, openinf/ to the port." — page 63 ; line 25 : 
 The Aboriginal name of wliat is now called Annapolis river was 
 Towaubacot. By the French, on their first arrival in the country, it was 
 called L'Equille, which name was very soon afterwards changed lor 
 Dauphin. 
 
 Note m- — " Soon Biencourville's lov> isle 
 
 ."—page 64; line 19. 
 
 What Is now known as "Goat Island" is named Bicncourvillc in 
 Lescarbot's map (1609) accompanying his Histoire de la Nouvelle France, 
 —having been so named, of course, for Bloncourt, the son of Sleur de 
 Poutrlncourt, founder of Port Royal. 
 
 Note is.—"- " ■ the tide of L'Orignal."— page 64 ; line 22. 
 Known now by its English synonym of " Moose River." 
 
NOTES. 113 
 
 Note i6.— " Surprised and Hunned, their \innnnrd Engliah/oe 
 
 Arc vanquishrd e'er they scarce can strike a ftfojw."— pngo 75 ; 
 
 [llncH 14 <& 15: 
 
 " Many of those at a dlstanoo [from Port Royal) liad not yielded to the 
 English [In conformity with tho torms of tho capitulation of Subercasp, 
 on the and ot O^obor of tho prooodlng year— 1710], and Captain Pigeon, 
 an officer of the rcf^ulars, was sent up the river with a strong detachment 
 to reduce them to subjection, and procnre timber for tho repairs of ihe 
 fort. While in th(! performance of this duty, they were surprised by a 
 groatbmly of Indians, who killed tho P'ort Major, the Engineer, and all 
 tho boat's crew, and took between 30 and 40 prisoners. Tlie scone of this 
 disaster Is situated about 12 miles above the fort, on the road t« Halifax, 
 and is still called Bloody Creek. "'-Hal iburton's Nova Scotia, vol. J; 
 page 91. 
 
 Note 17.—" Than by the banks of Shuhenacadie ."—\>mfi 81 ; line 25 : 
 
 Tho early settlers along the Shubenacadlo and its vicinity, wore prob- 
 ably not mftre superstitious than their neighbours and contemporaries In 
 many other parts of Nova Scotia. It has happened, however, that owing 
 in part, to the daring, even to the verge of recklessness, which was a 
 characteristic of the people ; In part, to the prevalent dangerous occupa- 
 tions of many of them in connection with the extensive gypsum quar- 
 ries of the vicinity, and in tlie extremely perilous navigation of a river 
 and bay whose tides exceed In rapidity and maximum height those found 
 anywhere else In tho world : sudden and violent deaths were. In former 
 times, almost astoundlngly frequent. Tho effect of this upon the minds 
 of the rude and, for tho most part, Illiterate forefathers, may be easily 
 conceived. Many spots were •* haunted " by ghostly visitants,— possibly 
 are so still ; and tho weirdly legends of the country side wore numerous 
 and startling. As for Witches,— ra^&xxy persons still living can remember 
 the lineaments of certain elderly dames who bore the dangerous reputa- 
 tion of being adepts in the Black Art, and of whose monstrous achieve- 
 ments— some of them quite as objectionable as any attributed to Peggy 
 Boan— many tales wore told and believed. 
 
 Note 18.— '• The razed French Chapel's ponderous 6en. "— page 87 ; line 13: 
 In the most Eastern section of what Is now the township of London- 
 derry, Colchester county, the French population of Cobequld, previous to 
 tho General Expulsion In 175s, hod a church of the dimensions of 100 feet 
 by 40 feetr— probably the largest in Acadia ; and from this fact the village 
 formed by their successors around its site, has ever since been called 
 ' Masstown.' This church Is said to have had a large and fine bell which, 
 it has been supposed, the French, at the time of their expulsion, hatl 
 burled surreptitiously In a neighbouring morass. The early English- 
 speaking settlers matle many and fruitless searches for this boll. 
 
 Note ig.— '' E'en the Devil himself would baulk at Slack's Causeway ."~ 
 
 [page 88 ; line 25 : 
 
 To the unlearned In tho topography alluded to in this wltch-rlde, It 
 may be mentioned that, in former times, ' Hlack's Causeway' designated 
 a vile and much dreaded section of the high road between Truro and 
 Londonderry which was the scene of many mishaps,— ludicrous, vexa- 
 tious, disastrous, and evpn tragical. 
 
MISCELLANEOuTpOEMS. 
 
,wrt l-n 
 
 
 '. I ■■'"•' ; 
 
 ■■-/."" ^ ■ , 
 
 (?C>B <' 
 
 ■ fuvfti 
 
 . .-^w;.' ; 
 
 11 im. 
 
 ^iUfhiiUim\.i jjo lili* 
 
 .■r- 
 
THE FOREST. 
 
 Oh, the Forest forever ! the Forest for me ! 
 I would dwell in the Forest, so pathless and free, 
 
 Afar from the haunts of the spoiler, Man ; 
 Where Freedom, in primeval pride, 
 Roams ever with gigantic stride, — 
 
 As ever since the World began ; 
 Where flows in its triumph the fetterless river, — 
 Unstaying, resistless, onward forever, 
 
 Like the march of Time through Eternity ; 
 And the thousand-fold hills from their splendors 
 
 of green 
 Shake the undulous light, like the gloom and the 
 
 sheen 
 
 On the mountain waves of a frozen sea. 
 
 Oh, the Forest forever ; the Forest forever I 
 When Morning comes, like a silent river. 
 
 From the gush of her orient, golden foun- 
 tain ; 
 And a million leaflets flutter and dance 
 With joy, o'er the wide and living expanse. 
 
 As her smile breaks forth on the blushing 
 mountain. 
 The music that heralds her triumphal march, 
 
118 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 As she calmly treads 'neath the towering arch 
 
 Of bowers framed by Jehovah's hand; 
 Is the warbling song of a thousand rills, 
 And the anthem that swells o'er the leaf-clad hills 
 
 When the Zephyr awakes her empyreal band. 
 Then Nature bounds forth from a dreandess 
 
 sleep, — 
 Not like frail moi'tals, to pine and weep, 
 
 But smiling in beauty, and freshness, and 
 
 As first she woke when, aaes ffone, , 
 
 Ere Man himself had seen the dawn, 
 
 Her smile first beamed on Eden's grove. 
 
 Oh, the Forest forever ! how sweet its shade 
 When Noon on the dreaming hills has laid 
 
 The glories of a sunny sky ; 
 And with noiseless step the leaf-shadows dance 
 O'er a golden floor, when the sunbeams glance 
 * ' Through the foliage opening far on high. 
 No sigh then ruftles the lake's calm bosom, 
 Though kissed by the bending Viburnum blos- 
 som, , . 
 As she sees her loved image reflected there. 
 Save where his fitful song of love vif >? » 
 The wren pours forth from green alcove. 
 
 No whisper breaks the sweltry air. 
 Hosts everywhere a holy spell, — 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 119 
 
 On glimmering glad and shady dell; r v^ /. 
 
 The host which God alone can number, 
 Save for their own breath's odorous kiss j^„ p.] 
 By each other fanned, are motionless, y)iw\h 
 
 And seem to toy with wooing slumbet*. 
 
 Oh, the Forest dark, how grand its gloom !, ., 
 When over all Night's sable plume . ^ > 
 
 Droops heavily and silently. u ' 
 
 When darkness upon darkness mass'd ^ . 
 O'erarch one cavern, — column'd, vast, >",^; ' * 
 
 Outstretching to infinity; , ,. ..i 
 
 Where naught relieves the hue of night 
 Save where a wandering moonbeam's light 
 
 Throws on the ground a watchfire's glare, 
 Or, stealing down sonie dead tree's corse, 
 Upraises grim a snow-whHe torse ' 
 
 Outchiseled from the darksome air ; — 
 When the aspen whispering on the hill, 
 And the far-oflf note of the whip-poor-will, 
 
 And the muttering brook's soliloquy, ,^ 
 
 And the moody owlet's fitful whoop, ''■--'-•^^, 
 
 And the soaring night-hawk's sounding swoop, 
 
 •?•'"' But mark the still's intensity. '^•"'; , ,. 
 
 The Forest — ^how joyous ! when its life current 
 mounts if^tiJiMi »,i t»«i*t^iii'^ 
 
 Sweetly upward from Mother Earth's mammary 
 
 founts, ;!<>»j» fr'Tf Mil ilfSi,/L 
 
 15 
 
120 Miscellaneous poems. 
 
 When over the world the Year's Morning 
 beams ; 
 And its countless pulsations, soft nuirmuring, 
 Make music such as the angels sing 
 
 To childhood when smiling in innocent 
 dreams. 
 Then, with placid life exuberant, ,/ 
 
 Each wakened spray grows radiant ,- ^^' 
 
 In smiles of happy-tinted flowers, H/^' 
 
 And breathes upon the passing airs, , j,^ j 
 
 In odors sweet, its silent j^rayers 
 
 To Him who sends the sun and showers ; 
 And birds, in rainbow-colored hosts. 
 Once more returned from far-off coasts, i 
 
 In love's delight forget to roam ; 
 Whilst fluttering round their native haunt. 
 With tranquil ecstasy they chaunt, j, 
 
 In chorus sweet, their * Home, sweet home. ' 
 
 The Forest — oh, gorgeous its myriad dyes, 
 When Autumn the rainbow has plucked from the 
 
 skies 
 
 And scattered it wide o'er the leafy pavilion. 
 Till the radiant hills are flooded in glory. 
 Ever changing — verdant, hoary, - «. . * ; u *,■- ^^ -r 
 .l»^»tj Russet, golden, and vermilion. 'Ml«; ' 
 O'er all there floats an amber mist, 
 As if the very light that kiss'd 
 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. • 121 
 
 -■-.U 'T 
 
 The wild wood caught its mingled ray ; lr>fi/^ 
 The while the listening air hears tell 
 Each whispering leaf its last farewell |,,,/ 
 
 As down it floats from parent spray. 4}.lf 
 The air but seems ethereal balm, ^ /' 
 
 That laps the soil in dreamy calm 
 
 Where solemn thoughts with joy are blended: 
 We cannot feel that Death is there ; > 
 
 But, sweetly smiling, Nature fair .. .>J5j>fA 
 
 Sinks to her rest, a gala ended. ^ , , , / 
 
 The Forest wild ! — I love it still, i '' 
 
 When Winter, earth, and lake, and rill,- f! iwf/ 
 
 Has bound in adamantine chain ; . vtVWsrH > 
 When every spray is crystal'd o'er ■ r; .fitj ''•^^ * 
 With gems of ice — transparent, hoar — ^'uVU 
 
 By silver thaw, or freezing rain ; >*'i^ '^ // \ 
 And mile on mile, o'er the dazzling expanse, 
 These diamond pendants sparkle and dance, 
 
 And ring to the breeze like tiny bells ; — 
 Or when the loud crash from the frozen brake,^' 
 Or the booming moan of the prison'd lake, 
 
 The terrors of Winter storm foretells ; 
 And the winds, with the hissing snows before, T 
 Sweep the lorn hills with circling roar wm) vyrA 
 
 Till the wildwoods wave like a storm-lashed 
 
 sea ; • . O 
 
 Whilst the swaying pines toss their arms aghast 
 
;.■* 
 
 122 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And wrestle amain with the whirling blast, 
 And moan in their fitful agony. 
 
 ,\ 
 
 wi 
 
 Oh, the Forest forever I the Forest for aye ! 
 In the Forest I'd live ; in the Forest, die : 
 
 I'd wend to its coverts lone and deep, irt 
 And there by the soothing breezes fann'd, 
 As they swept through the pines and maples^ 
 
 grand ' InH 
 
 I'd woo at last the eternal sleep ; ^ 
 
 And o'er me spread for a funeral pall 
 Be the tinted flowers and leaves that fall 
 
 From my couch's fliittering canopy ; 
 The while no sadder requiem 
 Than the wood-thrush's morn, or evening hymn, 
 
 May float above me where I lie. 
 
 
 :.*ii.* 
 
 ■►.. «M« 
 
 iY/ 
 
 f:*(f^<#!mr>/fi 
 
 n' ' 
 
 ry!A(i^-*if(^L \ 
 
 -it A. 
 
 
 nH 
 
 
 i' ) 
 
 
 
 
 >(i /* 
 
 f»*1l{ 
 
 ;/• 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 128 
 
 MY SHANTY IN THE WOOD. ^ 
 
 'V 
 
 Away, away, to the wildwood's shade, — 
 
 From cankering care and wearing toil i ' /| 
 Away, away, from the clang, of trade. 
 
 From the heedless crowd, and the town's 
 turmoil, ,. 
 
 I hie to my own sweet, lonely dell. 
 
 Far, far away from the worldling brood, — 
 To thy lowly roof that I love so well,n, .,u, . 
 
 My own dear Shanty in the WoQd.,^\^^^fgi^^* 
 
 No bubble fashion mocks me there 
 
 With changing iridescent glow ;' '.' 
 Nor wealth displays its vaunted glare, ♦*^**^ '^' 
 
 To tantalize with fleeting show ; 
 But there's the pomp of wild woods grand ; 
 
 There, Nature, in h&v kindest mood> ,, „»( 
 AVith beauties from a generous hand 
 
 Has wrapped my Shanty in the Wood, i > ] 
 
 No skillful pencil may I need, ,^ 
 
 To deck with costly art my walls ; 
 Nor tone of pipe, or string, or reed, 
 
 Eeverberant through sounding halls ; 
 For there the soul with beauty thrills. 
 
 Although those piny walls are rude, — 
 Such glories from the pictured hills 
 
 Surround my Shanty in the Wood ; 
 
 i 
 
 V 
 
124 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And from a thousand warbling throats, 
 Attuned to love's delicious spell, ^- 
 
 The very soul of music floats 
 
 Ado wn each odor- wafting dell : 
 
 Anon the deep ^olian lyre, 
 
 In chorus with the murmuring flood. 
 
 Sweeps fitfully, a hymning choir, 
 H Around my Shanty in the Wood. ,[/^} 
 
 There spreads the myriad-leaved tome. 
 
 That teaches most what man can learn : " ^ 
 TranquiUty there finds a home, ' 
 
 Afar from jealousies that burn ; , | ^^y, 
 
 And though, removed from Luxury's haunt, 
 
 Its board is spread with simplest food, ,4^ 
 I deem the scowls of sullen Want ; 
 
 Will shun my Shanty in the Wood. 
 
 11 '1 ' * i 
 Then come, my Love, and wave behind 
 
 The envious glance, the slanderer's tongue : 
 In these fond arms protection find 
 
 From crouching guile and bolder wrong ; 
 And I, in thy love-lighted eyes. 
 
 Shall find all else there needs of good, .^^ 
 To make an earthly paradise • '*v ^^^,/ 
 
 Of my sweet Shanty in the Wood. ., vV 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 125 
 
 f > 
 
 BE OUK EMBLEM THE LILY. . 
 
 [Divers sugf^eHtlons have 1>een made oa to an emblem for the Dominion 
 of Canada. Why not the lovely White Water-Illy (Nymphcra Oderntn), 
 so widely and generally abundant within the Canadian borders, and one 
 of the hardicHt, most beautiful, and sweetest flowers that blooms ?] . 
 
 Be our emblem the Lily, — the sweetest the fairest 
 
 Of all flowers that bloom in Canadian clime ; -. 
 
 Ever smiling with joy when the sunlight is cloar- 
 
 est^^ 
 
 Yet appalled by no tempest, nor blighted by 
 
 »t.»i nme. "' 
 
 Then hurra for the Lilies pi^^^^n^^'^'<^ 
 The Lilies of Canada ! ^*^^ ^'^^f^ . 
 
 That Lily's sweet odor wafts o'er oitr Dominion, 
 
 Fi'om Columbia's deep valleys to bleak Labra- 
 dor.; f* '.»?»-t- "*■ VJ!««M-.:_<v^^»4i;^^^iijlc,..s.. <, 
 
 From the bourne where Our Future shall wave 
 her broad pinion. 
 To lake, stream, and tarn by the dim Arctic 
 shore. . 
 
 Then hurra for the Lilies &c. 
 
 As she dances afloat on the soft-rippling waters, 
 And unbosoms her charms to the light from 
 above, 
 
 * The Lily, whilst expanding Its snowy petals to the fullest extent under 
 the bright sunshine folds them closely together during the night. It 
 even remains closed or partially so, during tlie day time when the sky is 
 deeply overcast. 
 
126 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 May she emblem the beauty and grace of our 
 daughters, 
 And their purity stainless to glances ot love. 
 
 Then hurra for the Lilies &c. 
 
 In their dear native soil, like the Lily deep- 
 anchored. 
 May our sons ride defiant in face of the blast ; 
 If e'er transiently shadowed, with heart still un- 
 cankered, 
 To re-brighten with joy when the night-cloud 
 is past. 
 
 Then hurra for the Lilies &c. 
 
 When our Land of the Future is halo'd with glory, 
 And her children with might and with honor 
 are bless'd, i**^**" 
 
 May the voice of the trumpet proclaiming her 
 story 
 
 Be as sweet as the gale which her lilies have 
 kiss'd. ' ' 
 
 Then hurra for the Lilies &c. 
 
 Then let us >vith Lihes our banner emblazOn, — 
 The sweet-breathing Lily with bosom of snow ; 
 
 And be ours the country wherever we gaze on 
 The waters adoriied where our own Lilies grow. 
 
 Then hmi'a for the Lilies &c. 
 
MlSCELLAi^EOtS POEMS. 12/ 
 
 HURRA ! HURRA FOR NORLAND ! 
 
 , . ' ' ' -* ' . ti ' 
 
 fit may be as well to oxplain that the following " Bong ftir thf> TIiiioh "— 
 ropublishod from the Ilulifiix British CoUmiitl nowH])iipcr of tlu; date ap- 
 |)«nded— was written at a tlmowhon the British North Anierieun Pro- 
 vinces— now the Dominion of Caniula — were evidently on the eve of belnfj 
 invaded at various points, by formidable bodies of " FenlanH," or>?anl/,ed, 
 arn\od,and drilled in the United Btates. It was also written under the 
 apprehension that those Provinces, tiie Union of whioli was then about 
 being consummated, would colloctlvoly bo named " Norland." The stanz- 
 as were set to music which was adopted as the March of the nth Uegt . of 
 Halifax County Militia, which battalion the author had the honor, at the 
 time, to command.] i ' 
 
 Men of Norland, draw the sword : . ^^* '• 
 
 Set your households all in order. »/ 
 
 See, there comes a rabble horde — ^' ' * * 
 
 A storm-cloud darkens on our border. 
 Come, man your guns, true Norland sons ,j ry.' 
 
 Of sires famed in battle story. „,,^ h'mI f/ 
 Strike home, strike home ; a time has come ,y 
 
 To fi«'ht for freedom and for alory. , t 
 
 *v Chorus. fi.y i^^ .^t4/'-^ 
 
 True Norland men, we're staunch and steady. 
 
 Hurra ! hurra for Norland ! 
 
 Let foemen come : they'll find us ready. ... 
 
 Hurra ! hurra for Norland ! 
 
 From Lake St. Clair to Newfoundland, , V 
 Hark ! the bugle sounds "Assemble." '!7^' 
 
 Up ! defend your native land : '''"'^ ''r<^ j^^' ^ > 
 Be not yoii the men to tremble.'*'^* '^ '^^^^^^ 
 
 Recall the fight on Queen stown Height ; 
 
 Remember Stadacona eland ; "* " 
 
 16 
 
 .ji'.:?'r 
 
l28 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The glorious fray at Chateau guay, 
 
 In the bloody, brave old days of Norland. 
 Chokus. True Norland men &c. 
 
 On Erie and Ontario's shoio, 
 
 'Midst Niagara's* ccasehiss thunder, 
 
 Where broad St. Lawrence rapids roar. 
 Meet greeting give these birds of plunder. 
 
 Meet them beside the St. Croix tide, ,,..^*^.. .; 
 By bosky banks of Ouangondy, / -i. ,v..j; 
 
 Acadia's strand, in Rupert's Land, 
 
 Or on the foaming waves of Fundy, ,h ,,n 
 -.'V Chorus. True Norland men &c. v. • ^ 
 
 With sword, and gun, and shot, and shell, •' * 
 
 Then come on, Godless, reckless raider. 
 We'll let our children's children tell 
 
 How met the Norland men th' invader. 
 No bandits vile shall e'er defile 
 
 The freedom-sacred soil of our land 
 Then, foemen, hear, — by all that's dear. 
 
 We'll stand, or fall by our loved Norland ! 
 
 Chorus. 
 True Norland men, we're staunch and steady^ „ 
 
 Hurra ! hurra for Norland ! 
 Let-foemen come : they'll find us ready. 
 
 God SAVE the Queen and Norland. 
 March 26, 1866. 
 
 •Notwithstanding recent custom to the contrary, traditional pronuncia- 
 tion and euphony alike demand tluit Niagara should be accented on the 
 penultimate syllable, as it necessarily must be in the text. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ' ' 129 
 
 . ^ TO THE WOODTIIRUSH. 
 
 Thy song, doar bird of solitude, — 
 Most musical that charms our wood, — 
 Its sweetness trilling, 
 From full heart swelling, — 
 How soothin<r to the heart in saddest mood 1 
 
 .'IT 
 
 ■I u" > 
 
 At dawn, remote from twittering throng, - i' 
 So lovingly thy notes prolong V* • 
 
 Their greeting benison, ' ,- 
 
 In cadenced chanson, ' '^^ 
 
 It seems that light of morning, breathes in song. 
 
 At eve, from tallest piny spire, nhV/ 
 
 Still bathed in beams of westering fire, mm!! 
 , Thy fitful chanting, Ui^i 
 
 In notes enchanting, '^i 
 
 Wells forth like melody from heaven-strung lyre. 
 
 Now riplingly the warblings flow ^ 
 
 Thy whole rich diapason throudi ; , ' ! * ' ,,' 
 ' Then upwards tmklmg, 
 
 - Like silver clinking, ^ , 
 
 Thy vocal bell announces changes new. ^ . . 
 
 AH thirsting for thy music-rain, ^ni » « .nu^f't y)J 
 We drink the ail too fitful strain, -' <i«>t^ 
 
 Each transient ending '^' dmnU 
 
 Our rapt ears bending 
 To hear that silvery voice mount up again. 
 
130 ' MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Yet ever seems thy song to know 
 The thrill of half-forgotten woe, — 
 
 A plaintive gladness, 
 
 Or joyous sadness : — 
 The very poet of the woods art thou ; 
 
 And sit'st alone most near the skies, 
 Apart from gaze of earthly eyes. 
 
 In self-communing, 
 
 Yet often tuning '• , 
 
 Thy voice to murmuring of memories. 
 
 Oh, would thy poet's lot were mine ; — 
 'Midst racking thoughts and cares malign. 
 
 Life's toils to slacken 
 
 And joys re waken 
 In sweet heart-gushings exquisite as thine. 
 
 f 
 
 ■■' ■ if; 
 
 ■•■'■-■ -I ■■■■■■■- ■ , ■ ;■>'■ 
 
 ■!■♦■ ■' 
 
 . 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.- ISl- 
 
 GOLD-MINERS' SONG. ^^ 
 
 (Air: Tull away cheerily .) 
 
 Ho, ho ! for the clamor 
 
 Of stamp, drill, and hammer ! <i<.'ii /'/ 
 
 Come, join in the chorus, all, stalwart and bold, 
 Swing your strong arms amain, boys ; 
 Strike home and again, boys, 
 
 Till the mine yields its tribute of glittering gold. 
 
 List, list to the thunder ?'«"«' '««i'-^ft-'«»'«H*i 
 
 . . t > ^ ■ J j 
 
 From the dark caverns under ! — 
 
 Aha ! 'ti.^ a music to f'ladden our hearts. 
 Again — deeper, louder — *'^*' "" [ 
 
 How the rock-rending powder ** ' 
 
 Upheaves from earth's bosom the gold-laden 
 quartz ! 
 Chorus : Then, ho for the clamor &c. 
 
 Now, come, let us carry, , . . 
 
 From the well shattered quarry, 
 
 The riven gangue and metals up to the light. 
 Then haste — pan and cradle ; 
 Quick the pure water ladle ; 
 
 Let us see if Fortune cheers us with a ftivoring 
 .' 'sight.' 
 
 Chorus : Then, ho for the clamor &c, 
 
 . -i^ I 
 
 '{'* 
 
132 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 f - 
 
 »* / I 
 
 Hurra ! here's no deceiving ; 
 For ' seeing is believing,' 
 
 And seeing we laugh at the proverb so old : 
 
 No doubt mars our pleasure lyf 
 
 When we find the real treasure ; tj.^\ 
 
 For Gold, although glittering, is e'sr kaown as 
 
 Gold. .;,:j 
 
 Chorus : Then, ho for the clamor ^fec. v i?" 
 
 Next, the pebbled rock scatter we i > 7: , ' 
 In the huge iron battery, 
 
 Where the steel-shodden stampers make thun- 
 dering din. 
 The amalgam so precious — 
 To the eye how delicious I : 
 
 For the furnace each granule, oh carefully wi« ! 
 Chorus : Then, ho for the clamor' &c. 
 
 Now, the ingot is fashioned, ,< 
 
 What new thought impassioned 
 Lights our vision through vistas of hours to 
 come ? 
 The remembrance, beguiling 
 Our cares and our toiHng, 
 
 Of our parents, chikb'en, wives, and our sweet- 
 "" hearts at home. u*? ;«. 
 
 Chorus : Then, ho for the clamor &a i 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 13^ 
 
 I WOULD DWELL BY THE SHOIIk'^^J 
 
 f 
 
 I would dwell by the shore of the sounding sea ; 
 For there I ever breathe more free, ''^*^*''^"'**'^* '''^^ 
 And a rapturous joy my bosom thrills i^ <f'^"*/ 
 When I seaward gaze from the lifeless hills. ^ * 
 I can never the sense of solitude know ^^''- * ''^ 
 Where the tidtU surges come and go ; **^*^j^'tJ' ■■'■■^' 
 And I feel a companionship dear to me 
 In the living waves of the restless sea. "^'•**5'^^- 
 
 Those waves now bound to the waiting strand, 
 With outstretched arms and murmurings bland. 
 Or playfully leap in the face of the sky "-»>* Mili 
 To tumble in boisterous revelry ;^^'*f' ?*/« ^<jH4^r 
 And now in mountain ranks tlK^y come, rt '^rs^^fl 
 On tempest march, with crests of foam ; ^ 
 
 But moving ever to melody 
 Are the restless waves of the sounding sea. 
 
 ;.v.. 
 
 The gloom of the sombre forest hills '*' ''**v^li 
 With a loneliness the bosom chills ; ■ ' '. 
 And dirgedike sound the solemn winds, ' ^ * *^'^ " 
 As they sweep the lyre of moaning pines ; ^* ' 
 But grandly joyous the eternal roar '"^ r^ •* 
 Of billows dancing to the shore : 
 It mocks the thunder's fitful glee, — ;» ' 
 
 That surging din of the breaking sea. 
 
134 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The ocean prairie, rolling wide, . 
 
 Is gorgeous in its Summer pride, 
 
 And, from its bloom of myriad dyes ' ,, ' 
 
 Wafts dulcet incense to the skies ; ,^ -,;j 
 
 But brighter far than prairie bloom 
 
 Is the sparkling wave, with wreathes of foam ; ; 
 
 And sweeter than garden breath to me ; 
 
 Is the bracing gale from the briny sea. 
 
 There's beauty where the winding river .^.j. -^.^ 
 Its mighty flood rolls on forever ; 
 A charm in thunderous waterfalls -.;'{' 
 
 Delights the eye it yet appals : , jj ,: // 
 
 More beautifully grand the sight ; 
 
 When the billows rise in their splendid might, — 
 Their awful, mad immensity, ^j tu-.^a, 
 When they leap in wrath from the frantic sea. > 
 
 Let others joy in the bounteous plain, r ,..tj .•,, < 
 With its smiling fields and its golden grain ; 
 Let others in tuneful idyls tell v^' '*/- ' "»«!'( 
 
 Of the flowering vale and the bosky dell ; u'M 
 But I never can dwell in the joys of home ..j/. 
 Afar from the view of the briny foam : ... ] -kL 
 Oh, there is the home most dear to me ; mU 
 And I pine for the shore of the glorious sea. 
 
 I 
 
■WHaOH 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEi& 
 
 loi} 
 
 •> Ml'!, 
 
 1:, /. 
 
 ' yUiJA 
 
 Starry light is palpitating 
 
 Through the bosom of the sky . 
 
 Breathlessly the grove is waiting 
 
 Listening for the breeze's sigh- - 
 Gentle evening woos to love. 
 
 Aspen leaves are all a-tremble , 
 lo their own love whisper! lo-s. 
 
 Joyous fire-flies bright assembfe, ^ 
 Borne on their love-lighted wiligs • 
 Lovely evening woos to love 
 
 Odors from a thousand flowers "' ^ ^-^ ^^ 
 
 Wh.eh bedew tho jewelled gro,„l'- 
 . Sweetest evening woos tolovo ; , 
 
 All of earth, and ain and ocean, X?'-^ 
 iJost ni love's voluptuous «pei 
 
 S.1«J with that deep emotion ... ,,<: 
 
 Utterance can never tell •— r ' 
 
 Silent evening woos to love. ' 
 
 ^bToI '"''''''*' '"^•''''■''«* blossom ■ • 
 
 Bloommg 'neath the sky of mVhT 
 ^'' me to thy pearly boL,"^ 
 
136 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Throbbing with intense delight,— // 
 '"'Passioned throbbings wooing love. 
 
 ' There, oh, fondly, happy-sighing, 
 ,,l .4. Clasp me warmly to thy breast /' 
 
 ■ 1 iM 
 
 Whilst I kiss the, fainting, dying, . ; 
 Ever closer — closer pressed, , ^ 
 In delirium of love. 
 
 
 :!f J-ft i>i!frttn*>7 ^^'^ *-'^ '« f-'i^;'-' ■■■■a. i 
 
 .-I? 
 
 EVER TO THEE. 
 
 Ever to thee my fond heart yearnetli, 
 
 With longing 'kin to agony ; 
 Ever to thee my rapt eye turneth, ,^ 
 
 Its vision filled with ecstasy : 
 My being is suffused with a spirit borne to thee — 
 Ever to thee ; ever to thee. . . / 
 
 When by thy side, those fair arms twining 
 
 Around my neck and panting breast, — • , 
 Then for all else I cease repining, ':■'■ 
 
 And in thy bosom find sweet rest ; 
 Whilst the throbbing of that bosom says : ''come 
 hither unto me — 
 
 Ever to me ; ever to me." 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 137 
 
 When o'er the world's rude way I'm driven, 
 Weighed down by many a carking care, 
 
 Fondly I dream of a waiting heaven — 
 A heaven on earth with thee to share ; 
 
 And a spiiit follows after to recall me back to 
 thee— '"'*^' 
 
 Ever to thee ; ever to thee. ' 
 
 I, 
 
 Dearest, oh, be to me, then, ever. 
 
 As now, my life, my soul of joy : 
 Let doubt's disturbing tremors never 
 
 Thy golden confidence alloy. — 
 Then hither to my arms and thy yearning let it 
 be, — 
 
 Ever to me ; ever to me ! 
 
 -'^' EXPATRIATED. -\^im'n\i\f 
 
 Farewell ! — my Native Land, farewell f— 
 
 Yes ; I must seek a foreign shore : /H fvulW 
 These parting accents are the knell >f'{unf 
 
 Of hopes now dead for evermore. — i tc.d'V 
 As, gazing on a woman fair ^^ fff UnA ^ 
 
 And marking every feature there tfj l^Jhmf 
 The model of ripe loveliness, * Jv: r 
 A child, with yearning tenderness, ; 
 

 138 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Who claims that form a Mother's, . . :r- . 
 
 Sees that to him her breast is snow ; — ,; . , 
 i For him no love illumes that brow ; ' 
 
 The pride of her own beauty born, i- , >. 
 
 Js met with unconcern, or scorn ; , , ^ > 
 
 Her smiles are all for others ; — / " 
 
 Thus ever my adoring eyes M " '■' 
 
 Have dwelt on thee, fair Mother Land ; 
 
 Thus now I feel thy loveless guise, — • '* * 4 
 
 The wave repellant of thy hand. • '- - ' 
 
 
 Thy glory, fame, prosperity, >, j, r 
 
 Have ever been most dear to me — 
 
 Nay, they have been my very own. 
 I've striven, toiled — yea. wept and prayed, 
 That Heaven thy young career might aid, 
 
 And glorify thy mountant throne. 
 And what though weak my efforts proved % 
 The travail e'en for thee was loved ; 
 
 The heart that strove was thine alone. 
 
 I've had ambition, — it is true ; 
 And hoped I might not vainly sue 
 
 A humble seat in Fame's bright hall ; 
 But oh, the wish was dearest far, 
 My name might dwell a burning star. 
 
 Though dim, on thy grand coronal. 
 I would not pass the stranger's gate; 
 Nor crave I glory — covet state, • 
 
 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 139 
 
 That must be won in other hinds. ' > .. 
 Towards thee my holiest thoughts have sprung ; 
 la thee I've lived, to thee have clung, '■":■ 
 
 . Nor guerdon prized from foreign hands. « 
 
 Aks ! no patriot's meed is mine : . ,, ..,} 
 My brow no wreath will e'er entwine ; 
 
 No cheering smiles, my toil approve. •, ^^^ 
 
 A homeless lone one lingering here. 
 Without e'en peace, or rest to cheer, — ' 
 
 Men know me not and do not love. - / 
 To win the heart-sick laborer's wage, — ^^^f-- '{'■ ' 
 The sordid pangs of want t' assuage, ■ ^:ftS i 
 
 Now must I leave thy frowning shore. ^ — • 
 For thee I gladly would have died ; — - ^ ^' 
 
 E'en this last solace is denied. — - in^aJti 
 
 Farewell, farewell, for evermore ! J ' . 
 
 '"-•v.^r^ni'^V 
 
 ; !*>.: / - 
 
 lij J ; 
 
 -./^UNA. 
 
 Through the wail of dead years' dirges, 
 O'er the ghastly-crested surges ^ 
 
 Of the dark and troubled waters of the melan- 
 choly past, 
 
 Ever memory is turning. 
 With a sweet and saddened ye.iruing. 
 

 140 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 ' To a far and golden, morning isle, are yet with 
 gloom o'ercast : — 
 Ever memory heart-aching 
 Still gazes on that sunny shore where sorrow's 
 waves are breaking. 
 
 Ever brighter, ever clearer, . .* .> ,,, ^ 
 
 Ever lovelier and dearer, ',j^..< 
 
 Seems that distant, sunny region of the morning 
 ^i' time of life. 
 
 As around me shadows gather. 
 
 And I'm driven fast and farther. 
 Surging onward, wending tomb-ward, o'er the 
 
 worldling waves of strife. 
 
 Still and ever doth remembrance 
 lievive the hope that Heav'n must be, to shadow 
 
 thus Heaven's semblance. 
 
 jjii Floating through that visioned morning, ,. 
 
 E'en its happy light adorning, 
 Lo, a sweet and gentle spirit in a form of maiden 
 
 With a melody of motion, 
 Ever, to my tranced notion, 
 
 E iring sweetness where she listeth, like an odor- 
 laden air, — 
 Melting in celestial rapture 
 
 The heart her love enfolds in unpremeditated 
 capture. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 141 
 
 .(»,.* Is she woman, or an ans»el, ,;• .-.; ... 
 
 Who, with voice of an evangel, 
 
 liroathes music of sweet comfort to the sorrow- 
 laden breast ? , , . 
 Towards whom the wildest passion \ 
 Ever victor Love could fashion 
 
 Is chastened by her purcness to a sweet and holy 
 zest; ' «'; 'u» jf -,vm; f. .< -{ 
 
 . ' And the phrenzy of emotion, ai ;rt(H. • -• 
 
 Reflected from her heart, becomes a heavenly 
 devotion? ' "'"^isii^. •.)iiis»i>ii$*(K;i' vA 
 
 ...;:■ r.. l....i ,..,....,1. ._. J I . > . 
 
 '♦' ' Now, behold her light step coming, itiiufr: 
 Like the spirit of the gloaming. 
 
 Her eyes' sweet light that beameth love like yon- 
 der evening star ; — o ,, ; w^^.s s i.,ii.* ',^n/\U 
 Coming, by the river margin, 1 1 -stuij 
 Where the Spring's first flowers burgeon. 
 
 To trysting place, by placid pool, below the crim- 
 son scaur, ' *' 
 Where the stream its noisy fleetness " * 
 
 Is staying, hushing, — as to list her voice's silvery 
 sweetness. 
 
 
 ; ' ^ ■ . . - ..\,r... .,; « j 
 
 Now in decked and scented bower,-— 
 
 ;■ Sweetest bud of fairest flower, — ; . 
 
 Now in cot, or hall, or chamber, or amid the 
 
 throngs of men, V 
 
142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 . To my memory it seemeth, 
 
 That sweet 2)resence ever boamcth 
 Upon my ruptured soul, wliicli drinks that light 
 
 yet thirsts again : 
 
 Ever with me is that presence, 
 In form, or spirit, charming life with a saddcn'd 
 
 angel pleasance. - . ; ■ ' ' 
 
 Banished every care and sorrow, 
 
 , '\ 
 
 Dreaming glories of each morrow, 
 
 ,.v a 
 
 I revel in the blisses of the sweetly certain Now. 
 Even pain, the sense that wringeth. 
 Charmed compensation bringeth ; 
 
 So healing thrill her tender words, her hand upon 
 my brow; — 
 Fondly, fondly memory lingers 
 
 O'er the gentle touch mesmeric of those slender- 
 est of fingers ! 
 
 Clouds my morning vision darken — 
 '■ Black and ominous — and hearken ! 
 Their cavern'd depths roll out the thunder-notes 
 
 of coming doom.— 
 
 Days all happy sunshine marring !— .'','' 
 
 Agony of ceaseless warring 
 With the dark, relentless destinv that sideth with 
 
 the tomb !— 
 
 Eent a bleeding heart asunder, — 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 143 
 
 Tho better part engulphed fur ayu death's bitter 
 waters under ! — 
 
 Are we parted then forever ? ' 
 
 Angel UNA, shall I never 
 Again drink in the tender smile that bathed thy 
 
 love-lit eyes ? jv'" 
 
 Was the love each other given, — , . i 
 
 Pure as 't were a loan from Heaven, — 
 In thee extinguished in thy last earthly agonies ? 
 
 When thou passod'st Death's dark portals, 
 Was thy light of life eclipsed by glory of th' 
 
 immortals ? It ( • 
 
 Is this why I vainly waited, ' vip 
 
 When by ruthless Death un-mated, v/r ' 
 
 The fulfillment of that promise tendered with ' 
 thy dying breath ? . r » 
 
 When, to soothe the pang of parting. 
 Thou didst say thy spirit, darting * 
 
 Upon Love's lightning pinions frcm beyond tho 
 sea of Death, . , ;^.ii i 
 
 Oft and surely — Heaven consenting — 
 
 Would visit me on earth again in loneliness 
 lamenting 1 
 
 Or doth thy spirit fondly hover 
 Still around thy earth-chained lover, 
 1§ 
 
144 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Suffusing with thy presence 'though unseen to 
 
 mortal eyes ; 
 
 And, with daily growing frequence, ^^ 
 
 Tracing up the tangled sequence. 
 Lead back his thought to dwell upon these tender 
 
 memories, — 
 
 Fittingly hi» spirit weaning 
 From aL .^membrances of earth which have least 
 
 heavenly meaning ? 
 
 1, . • . t ;-■ ■ ■ 
 
 Only know I, — moaning dirges, ' ' 
 
 And the restless, sol)bing surges 
 
 Of tlie dark and troubled v/aters of the melan- 
 choly past. 
 
 E'er my memory are turning, 
 With a fond, regretful yearning, 
 
 To that glorious, golden morning time, too soon 
 with gloom o'ercast : — - . 
 Ever gaze I, with heart-aching, 
 
 Upon that early strand of life where sorrow's 
 waves arc breaking. ', , 
 
 ■\\\{\\- !. ".j-f !{;>■! .• .■ i ■ r • - '-'■' \' ; ' ,' ■ , t, 
 
 .' jllll !' • -'A i , • /•' 
 
 f 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 145 
 
 . "to' A CHILD SLEEPING. ,,;r^'"^ 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on, thou tiny thing, **'^ ^ 
 
 Encradled in thy innocence. '^''' ^^" ■*''*^' " 
 What blest repose tliy shinibers bring— '^^'^^'*^'^^ 
 
 Unconscious joy to every sense ! ''^"^ 
 Not sofHier breathes the budding rose ' 
 
 When evening breeze forgets to kiss ;' '^''* ' ^ 
 Nor sweetlier that budlet blows . ' 'j 
 
 When fondling sunbeams wake to bliss. 
 
 Sweet emblem of humanity's young dawn, ' 
 
 Sleep gently on. ' '"^V 
 
 The dews that gem thy stainless brow '*''' % 
 
 Were never wrung from heart distressed : 
 Those crystal drops, that roseate glow, 
 
 But note thy energy of rest. '*'' "' 
 
 Already that lj),Ht lingering tear, ^" '* '^ '^ 
 
 Of babe-hood's little troubles born, '''' 
 Has fled thy silken lashes there, .• '****(' 
 
 As flee the tears of sunny morn ; ''''';^ 
 And now thy joyous dreams call up a smile 
 So sweet the while ! 
 
 Now, happy sighing, closelier pressed 
 Thy hitest, dearest, treasured toy ;— 
 
 Fast fold it to thy yearning breast,— 
 A httle miser in thy joy I — 
 
 K 
 
146 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And dream again what wealth of love 
 Thou bearest for that senseless thins: : 
 
 What tender cares thy bosom move ; 
 
 The ' only grief-in-play ' they bring ; | 
 
 Then curl thee closer in thy birdUng nest :. ^^ ^ 
 And happy rest. 
 
 Oh, must '^^Lat infant loveliness 
 , Be destined home of grief and pain ; 
 And tuned thy heart-strings to distress, 
 
 Till they forget a joyous strain ; 
 That guileless brow be gashed by care ; 
 
 Those cheeks, with, tearful furrows grooved ; 
 Those lips bewail, in dark despair. 
 
 That ever thou hadst lived and loved ? 
 Oh, sweet, unconscious now to eyes that weep, 
 Still gently sleep ! 
 
 ■ ' ','1 .'" * 
 
 Alas! mayhap thy little heart ♦ > ; 
 
 May harden in this frozen world ; 
 And thou mays't choose the demon part ; 
 
 Thy destiny, to ruin hurled ; 
 Those dimpled- fingers, nerved to crime, • ' 
 
 Do deeds which innocence appal ; 
 Till thou becomest the loathed of time, — ' 
 
 Detested, hated, scorned by all. — ' ■' *" 
 Oh, better f\ir engulphed in Death's dark river ! — 
 Sleep, sleep forever ! 
 
 ••/»■,,'. 1 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 147 
 
 ■'";,', ■ : .'.'• "'^ . , t, •, . :■ . ■ 
 
 / ', ■; ■■:< ■ .■■-; . . <-, . \.' ■-* !? i> ■. 1 
 
 CANADA. 
 
 Sound tlic note of rejoicing from trumpet and 
 
 horn; 
 For this day to the family of nations is born 
 
 Our Canada ! 
 
 J. 1 
 
 Let the thunders awaken to tell the old earth 
 How we joyously welcome this travail-less birth 
 
 Of Canada. 
 
 i'r 
 
 Let the bonfires blaze from the hill's highest 
 
 crag, 
 And unfurl to the breeze the yet spotless young 
 
 flajj: 
 
 :> ' • ■ ..- •, V Of Canada; 
 
 ^o 
 
 While the people, exulting with shout and with 
 
 cheer. 
 Proclaim to the listening nations how dear 
 
 Is Canada ! 
 // 
 Blessed child of a glorious parentage, . > ,.( » 
 
 Born into the world in its brightest ago, 
 
 No deluge of blood does thy young life immerse; 
 
 Nor stamped on thy brow is a mother's curse : 
 
 All untrammeled thy limbs by the cankering 
 
 chains, 
 
 The harrowing toils and the numbing pains, 
 
148 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Which systems at war, in tho gloom of the past, 
 Have over thy suffering sisterhood cast : 
 Thou art free as the wind o'er thy prairies that 
 blows, ., ,., 
 
 And strong in the vigor that hourly grows ; n /> 
 No burden impedes thy triumphant career ; — 
 All, all of thy Mother's that thou mayest share, 
 Is the glory that brightens her history's page. 
 Say : what wilt thou do with thir -eritage, ''• 
 
 • > ^ •' • Oh, Canada 
 
 ? 
 
 Reposing there on thy Northern throne, ' • 
 
 A/Vith thy free-born air, so proud and grand. 
 
 Thy bosom begirt with a golden zone. 
 And an ocean kissing thy either hand ; 
 
 Is thy crown not already irradiated 
 . By the- beams from the sun of futurity shed ! 
 
 May never that lofty and stainless brow 
 
 With the blush of shame in confusion bow. 
 
 Nor the voice of the future recall with scorn 
 
 The promise of this thy natal morn, 
 
 * Fair Canada ! 
 
 
 Wilt thou blazon forth on the scroll of time 
 
 A proud record of thoughts and of deeds sublime \ 
 
 Be warned by- -but not to imitate — 
 
 The errors and crimes of a world effete ? " * 
 
 Shall the rule universal that governs thy land 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 149 
 
 Be, not the contrivance by impotence planned,— 
 A chaos of fiction, of error, deceit, • ^ 
 
 Where Anarchy's smile is Society's cheat ; — 
 But the law, e'er evolving to infinite years, 
 And which lives in the music of numberless 
 
 spheres, . D ►•'?! ■/ 
 
 Developing ever what best is in man, • 'f ■ H - 
 And ignoring the creed of Humanity's ban ; ' 
 "Whilst ever in Civilization's advance, ^ -' 
 
 In the vanguard shall quicken thy brightening 
 
 glance. 
 
 Till the sorrowir.g nations their tumult shall 
 
 cease 
 To partake of thy glories of dignified peace, 
 
 Brave Canada ? 
 
 Or foredoomed is that beauteous form to be ' ) 
 Of most loathsome of human things the prey, 
 Who, sneering at patriotism's filial ties t ^/y 
 
 And all things regarding with bestial eyes, 
 Would abase thee to grade of the prostitute, 
 And thy name, and thy fame, and thy honor 
 
 pollute ? 
 Shall the reckless empiric and impudent fool > • 
 Presume o'er thy splendid Dominion to rule, 
 And punily wise whilst viciously daft, ,/ ^vM 
 
 Go aping old wiles of exploded state-craft, » ,,,rT 
 In an endless procession, forever the same, Httdk. 
 
150 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 With "reform" but the change of a factionist 
 
 name ? 
 Shall a verminly host of corruptionists crawl 
 O'er the face of thy loveliness, fouling it all, 
 Till their carcases, gorged with the tide of tliy 
 
 life. 
 Make the stench of pollution where sweetness 
 
 was rife ; 
 Whilst their poison, cast back in thy nurturing 
 
 pores, ■ ' -' 
 
 Marks their trail ccntipedal with festering sores, 
 The spume of a leprosy raging beneath, 
 And making thy life one long, lingering death ? 
 Shall the knave sanctimonious and smooth hypo- 
 crite, 
 All the while, on thy breast, like an incubus sit, 
 To mock thee with tales of the Heavenly Will, ; 
 And tell thee thy woes are inevitable ; ,, • y 
 Till the wise of thy children — most loved of thy 
 
 heart, — 
 Away from the sight of thv wretchedness start, 
 In despair at thy ruin, and blushing with shame 
 At the blight ignominious that clings to thy name. 
 
 Poor Canada ? 
 
 Let our songs of rejoicing be toned with the 
 
 prayer. 
 That thy future may brighten a record more fair;— 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 151 
 
 For that prayer will re-act on the uttering Will, 
 To iiphft, to expand, and intensify still. 
 May thy sons, with due mete of their di-nity 
 : '■ rise, ., y: ' ■■^-„- ^ "^ 
 
 To wrestle, like men, with their destinies • 
 Put away childish things ; self-rehant and bold 
 -Drawing lessons of truth from the lore of the old 
 ^et seekmg forever intensified light, 
 Kear thy empire proudly in wisdom'and ri-ht • 
 And ever their glories ancestral advance, "^ 
 With more than the splendors of England and 
 trance ; 
 
 Till thy banner of peace and of progress mifurled, 
 J^hall blaze m the van of a happier world • 
 Whdst thy generate millions, through ages un- ' 
 born, " . o to 
 
 Shall honor with pride thy Nativity Morn, ' '^^ 
 July 1st, 1807. ^^ Boar Canada! 
 
 THE END. 
 
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