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THE • ' 
 
 PE^ST i iT. ^«Nj^E 
 
 /" 
 
 -TT^I^j^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BV 
 
 PIERCE STEVENS HAMIU^QN. 
 
 sivcoi^D e:»ixion. 
 
 -^)#(.-. 
 
 Ittotttrrnl : 
 
 PRINTED BY JOHN LOVELL &^ SON. 
 
 1890. 
 
t <^7(;ss 
 
 PS .^^^ -•" 
 
 Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada, 
 in the year 1878, by Pierce Stevens Hamilton, 
 in the Office of the Minister of Agriculture. 
 
f 
 
 I 
 
 4 
 
 
 J 
 
 TO THE KARL OP DUFFERIN,- 
 TRUE FRIEND OF CANADA. AND WORTHY PA'J 
 
 PATRON 
 
 OF EVERYTHING WORTHILY CANADIAN,- 
 
 THIS HUMBLE CONTRIBUTION TO CANADIAN LITERATUR 
 ( IS 
 
 (BY PERMISSION) 
 
 E 
 
 RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 
 
 BY HIS OBLIGED SERVANT, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
i 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Till-; Feast of Saint A.\nk \ y 
 
 'i'he kcndc/vous of D'Anvillc ,q 
 
 'Jhc Heroine of St. John -.^ 
 
 The Haunted of Port La foic 
 
 JJcrtrani and Madeleine— A Legend of Port Roya 
 
 'I'he Last Witch of Shubenacadie 
 
 Undine— A Domestic Tale 
 
 Notes to The Feast of Saint Anne 
 
 Miscellaneous Poems. 
 
 The Forest . . 
 
 My Shanty in the Wood 
 
 ]ie our Fmbleni the Liiy ..... 
 
 Hurra I hurra ! for Norland 
 
 To the ^Voodlhrush 
 
 • • • • 
 
 Gold-Miners' Song 
 
 I would dwell by the Shore 
 
 Serenade 
 Ever to Thee 
 Expatriated 
 Una . . . 
 
 To a Child Sleepint 
 At Jhansi . 
 
 A Remii 
 
 uiiscence 
 The Valentine 
 
 Farewell Plue Hills of Cobequid 
 Canada 
 
 . 4^» 
 . 61 
 
 <So 
 
 94 
 107 
 
 117 
 
 123 
 
 127 
 L30 
 
 T •^ T 
 
 •34 
 136 
 
 140 
 
 143 
 
 148 
 
 15' 
 
 155 
 
 157 
 
 '59 
 161 
 
4 
 
 .1 
 
THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 'TWAS Siimmertide in Oonumah-hcc's isle,— 
 That sentinel advanced of Canada, 
 To watch what conieth from the Atlantic niain- 
 VVhich nomenclature meanin-Iess, and mean, 
 And uninventive, hath " Cape Breton" called ; 
 Hut which, beneath the lovin- sway of France. 
 The prouder title bore of " /j/^ Royale!'' 
 As meet domain, or residence, of kini^rs. 
 For Nature there has, with most lavish hand, 
 Spread forth her treasures both of soil and mine, 
 And driven to its haven-girted shores 
 Theexhaustless living wealth of teeming seas, 
 Providing all which industry requires 
 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— 
 ^^ ^ with a tide of ocean pulsatino — 
 
 ample room, and scope, and shelter safe 
 
 W 
 
■I III: ll:.\S-l Ul S.\L\I .L\A/:. 
 
 To qatlii f in llir navies of an empire, 
 And tluic nian(iii\ Ti' tliitii in arts of war 
 
 In all the calni sccu.-it}- of peace. 
 
 Tlure Ijioad, dcij) haws, with sniih'ncj bosoms woo 
 'i lie maiiner, and not with tieacherous face. 
 Thert.' labyrinthine iidets, <vemmed with isles, 
 Uy overtopping^ promontories wind 
 l''ar into the deep recesses of the hills. 
 Where e'en the proudest bark that rides the main 
 Ma) moor herself amid the fjrowin*:^ pines 
 'J hat spire as loftil)' as her tallest mast : 
 The sinuous shores are ribanded with hills, 
 Oft towerinf;- grandl)- with a mountain mien, 
 Though clad in densest mass of greenery, — 
 Oft bendin<; L;racefu!I) to sweet, low plains 
 Of swarded intervale, outspreading^ far 
 'Twixt buttresses of deepest emerald, 
 Or deep, wild "lens, wherein the i^oldcn light 
 Is strained through foliage most deliciousl}', 
 Which woo the weary pilgrim of the world 
 To find a haven in their solitudes. — 
 It is a land of be iuties exquisite. 
 In lake and hill, dark glen and sounding shore, 
 Ami is to worshiper of Xature's charms, 
 A stately temple of a thousand shrines. 
 The gorgeously attired Acadian June 
 Had gathered up her multifloral robe, 
 
4 
 
 'iiir. FEAST or \.i/.v/' i.v.v/:. 9 
 
 > 
 
 And f:[liclc(l from tlu.* sii^fht ofsiniliin^ hills, 
 
 In all her briclchooci's swcctlincss and ^n\icc ; 
 
 And now July, her sister more inature 
 
 And more voluptuous, iii shady dell. 
 
 La)' dreamiii;^^ in delicious lassitude. 
 
 By breathin«^s soft of odorous twin-flowers fanned, 
 
 Or feastiu'r with fastidious daintiness 
 
 On first-fruits luscious proffered to her taste. 
 
 The fervid splendour of the Summer sun. 
 
 That briirhtencd all the sliores of Lake Bras d'Or, 
 
 Was tempered by the gentU; breeze which swept 
 
 Across the radiant deep from Ibarra 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 Ikas 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 favoured of their frequent shifting homes, 
 With names most musical in their soft tongue, 
 
 B 
 
10 
 
 THE lEASr OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Thouf{h oft distorted into sounds uncouth 
 In false refinement's blundering utterance, 
 'Or changed for nomenclature meaningless. 
 -From Malagwatchkit's mazy shores they came; 
 From where Benacadic and Eskasoni 
 Are linked by hill and shore to deep Tweedmooge ; 
 From W. gamatkook'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 stronghold of their fading race. 
 There, too, were gathered, though a scattered i^^, 
 The dusky denizens from many a stream 
 And antlered woodland of the neighbouring main, 
 And liom the bounteous isle Epaygooit, — ^ 
 That seems to sleep upon St. Lawrence wave, — 
 And yet more distant, whilom Micmac lands. 
 From Richibucto e'en to Ga^pe'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 Anne, 
 And still grave Council hold, as in the past, 
 When deeds momentous waited on their words. 
 But not alone the Tutelary Saint 
 
 m 
 
t 
 
 THE I'EAST OF SAIXT Ai\'AE. 
 
 It 
 
 And solemn conference on tribe affairs 
 
 Attract this thronging^, yearly pilj,nininge; 
 
 For on this bossy isle, ere while and lon<^ 
 
 The sweet abode of solitude profound, 
 
 With homely chapel bare of worshipers. 
 
 Shall now be held a work's hii^h holitlay, 
 
 When games, antl 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 cowds, too, throng this Indian Fair, — 
 Of grave, or gay. b)- 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 tree. 
 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 thu gathering crowd ; 
 And there, amid majestic even flow. 
 Of Micmac converse, softly musical, 
 Rang forth the gay, sonorous Lan^uc tWil,^ 
 As heard in France a centurv agone. 
 With lusty Gaelic gutterals — the ton^i;ue 
 Which loves the name of Scotia, Old and New, — 
 
 i 
 
12 
 
 rilE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 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 many a labouring 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. 
 Encampment 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 OE SAIXT AXXE. 
 
 n 
 
 v'as 
 
 n, 
 
 es. 
 
 im. 
 
 10 d, 
 
 With deep unceasing undertow of drone 
 
 Reverberating from the wooded hills ; 
 
 The squeaking 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 forever; 
 
 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 " Hio:hlaiul-flin<r " 
 
 Or other wondrous tanglement of step. 
 
 The duskier dancers in their native stvle. 
 
 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 loud ; 
 
 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,— 
 
 As wont their fathers when, in demon guise. 
 
14 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT AXXE. 
 
 t 
 
 They sallied forth upon the path of war. 
 
 Yet other pastimes, too, beguiled the day: — 
 The race of light 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 crv 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 moving scene 
 Unmoved, unsmiling, silent, as 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 revelrv, 
 
THE FEAST OF SAINT AiVNE. 
 
 fS 
 
 Though varied oft by hours ofcahn 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. 
 
 Or 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 inadvertently commands ; 
 
 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 splendour 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, 
 
i6 
 
 THE FKAS'r OF S.l/l'T .lA'A'F. 
 
 Yet, flower-like, unconscious of her charms, 
 Else veiling consciousness with artless art — 
 Sugf^ested 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 sweet companionship of each with each. 
 We looked upon her splendor as the sun's, 
 Its source remote from reacii of us poor youth, 
 And made to glorif)- a basking world, — 
 Not by one selfish soul to be absorbed. 
 
 ' Twas on the ver}' festal of Saint Anne's, 
 And cabins poured their " reverend seigniors " forth 
 To grave and solemn council ; for, this day, 
 Had they of all their tribe to choose a chief. 
 In vain may I, unlearned, essay to tell 
 What spake the o''aiors 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 hustinsfs 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. 
 
 m 
 
 J' 
 
THE FEAST OE SAINT ANXE. 
 
 17 
 
 rth 
 
 Tien, 
 
 Then, too, hii^h, solemn mass was celebrate, 
 As fitting the occasion and the day, 
 With much of novelty, but less of pomp. 
 The dark procession — led by vestured priests — 
 Of livinp^ remnants of a fading past, 
 P.ach decked with all his barbarous finery 
 In honor of the Saint and Festal Day, 
 Wound slowly 'moiiij^ the stragglin*^ hillocks careen 
 And wended up the homely chapel aisle, 
 With wailini; chant, slow, melancholy, wild, 
 i\s 'twere the death-soni:^ 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 : — 
 Ik' it not mine the puzzling task to reveal 
 The secrets of the Indian's inner life. 
 But now the day's solemnities are o'er; 
 And forth the chapel pours its motley crowd 
 To fire again the fitful /iv/ dejoic. 
 With hunting-pieces charged for good Saint .Vnne, 
 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 
 
 
r ^TJT TiBr^ri 
 
 i8 
 
 THE I'EAST 01- SAIN'l ANNE. 
 
 Of our own special, far-fetched company, 
 
 From our marquee's most honoured seat, thus 
 
 spake : — 
 " My friends, you, doubtless, cannot but recall 
 That when, last Christmas time, 'round my poor 
 
 board, 
 And far from this most charmincj wilderness, 
 We planned this pleasant Summer pilgrimage, — 
 To meet thus, on this Feast Day of St. Anne, 
 Upon this island of the grand liras d'Or, 
 To see, if aught, with what 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 approved — 
 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 embalm, 
 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 ; 
 
lUS 
 
 oor 
 
 /ed — 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT AXXE. 
 
 That, therefore, on this day and place of tryst, 
 Whoever could and 
 
 »9 
 
 would — for all are free — 
 
 SOUK 
 
 Should here produce some ballad— epic lay — 
 
 Or, at the very least, some simple song — 
 
 But redolent of this our native land. 
 
 I claim exemption from this minsh-el task ; — 
 
 Not that my days of poesy arc 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 son<r ! 
 
 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 D'ANVILLE. 
 
 
 li I 
 
 t| 
 
 M 
 
 Fair smiles the morn o'er j;ay Rochellc, 
 
 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 wing — 
 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 Poitou, Normandie, Bretagne, — 
 From every port along her main. 
 Stern France these floating squadrons 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 afar. 
 And soon, beyond the Atlantic's roar, 
 
 \r? 
 
THE KENDEIVOLS OE EWWILIJi. 
 
 21 
 
 On that New World's scarce trodilcii shore, 
 
 Where torest-inantled Acadie 
 
 Springs fortli to meet th'einbraciiii; sea, 
 
 Shall thunders of that host be hurled ; 
 For there the haughty Albion 
 Unfurls her banners to the sun, 
 And da»'es essay to curb th' advance 
 To conquest of the sons of l^'rance. 
 Now 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 lilied banners in the gale, 
 They now but wait the last command 
 To bound away from Gallia's strand. 
 The ships, fast anchored in the tide. 
 Now swaying, rearing, plunging, ride, 
 Like steeds arrested on mid -plain. 
 Impatient of the curbing rein. 
 The host who throng his 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 date. 
 Their king's behest and glory's lure, 
 From Fontenay and from Saumur, 
 
22 
 
 'HIE FEASl OF SAIN7 ANNE. 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 f^ I 
 
 ''!!• 
 
 Have youthlicr bands of warriors pressed, 
 Who proudly deem their fortune blest 
 To bear tlic Ljoldeny/tv/r itc lys 
 To lands beyond the Western sea. 
 There, too, are seamen stout and bold, 
 Who tales of niij^ht)' deeds unfold, — 
 True sons of sires whu cleft the main 
 With Jacques Cartier and brave Champlain. 
 
 Lo, in the vanguard sliip so tall, 
 Of all the fleet High Admiral, 
 La Rouchefoucauld the Duke D'Anvillc, 
 With lofty step and frequent wheel, 
 His pace responding to the train 
 Of thoughts careering through his brain, 
 And eyes sulTused with rapture's light. 
 Surveys his pomp of floating might. 
 Of all this kingdom favoured peer. 
 The leal, the brave, the debonair, 
 The chosen of his king 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 DEstournelle on high 
 His pennant as Vice Admiral fly ; 
 Here, veteran rommeril ; and there, 
 
rui: h'/':si)/:/i'o(s (>/• D'anvili.e. 
 
 23 
 
 The bravest of the brave, Joiuiuiere, — 
 A hero of liuiulred battles, lie, 
 In every land, on every sea. 
 
 New o'er Rochelle's Iife-teeniin<^ bay 
 There speeds the siLjii.d : " Anchor wei^h." 
 Hark to the sonnii ot' cl.inkin;4 pawl. 
 The loud coininand, the answiTin;;' call ; 
 Now shak«.> the clouds of canvas white, 
 Like sea-birds pknnin<( for the tlii^ht ; 
 Now climb the sails the tapiTiiiL;- mast, 
 And bend them to the swellin;^ blast ; 
 Each ship before the welcome breeze 
 Now heads away toward Western seas. — 
 List to the cheery, loud " hurra ! " 
 " Vive la belle Frame! " and " Fire le Rot ! "- 
 For thousands 'tis the last farewell 
 To sunny France — to La kochelle. 
 
 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 fl\ing 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 
 
 i 
 
24 
 
 THE FEAST or SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Tliey speed o'er the boundless, dark-scowling At- 
 lantic ! 
 From ice-fields of the North now rushes the gale 
 And lashes the ocean with scourges of hail ; 
 And now from th' I^quator 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 air. 
 The 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, wave, lightning, crushed and shattered, 
 That late proud fleet is rent and driven 
 Towards every unwished point of heaven ! 
 
At- 
 
 c 
 
 <jlare 
 
 riven, 
 
 .111 
 
 1, 
 
 THE RENDEZVOUS OF D'ANVILLE. 
 
 From morn till night, each trembling bark 
 Flies lorn before the tempest dark ; 
 From night till morn, that tempest's coil 
 But brings worse terrors, adds to toil : 
 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 rage ! 
 No stern resolve upholds your arms 
 To battle with the God of storms ! 
 
 Now where, from far Antilles' shore 
 And ice-bound crags of Labrador, 
 The waves, rolled up o'er half a world, 
 Are fiercely each on other hurled, — 
 There wilder still the conquering gale 
 Now wars, presaging drearer bale; 
 And here a remnant of that host. 
 Long shivered, maimed, and sorely tossed, 
 Still ken the lead of brave D'Anville. 
 Beneath the mightier storm they reel ; 
 Away the sail from splintering mast 
 Is riven by the relentless blast, 
 And fluttered o'er the foamier seas, 
 Like thistle-down by Summer breeze; 
 And crunching waves and floatinir wreck 
 
 c 
 
 n 
 
26 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Sweep, fore and aft, each groaning- deck ; 
 Whilst men in vain essay to cry 
 To God in their last agony. — 
 
 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 ? 
 'T is Sable's Isle! Oh, Mother of 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, 
 
• 
 
 rilK RENDEZVOUS OE D'ANVILLE 
 
 Or listen, where embowered on high, 
 
 The ripple's softest melody, 
 
 Or wavelet dancing on the sand ; 
 
 But neither slope, nor dell, nor strand, 
 
 Denotes that ever heretofore 
 
 The foot of man hath trod this shore : 
 
 On every hand, 'tis nature wild, 
 
 Primeval, 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, 
 With tattered sail and broken spar, 
 As if escaped from direst war. 
 'J'his 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. 
 Hereon this glassy and silent bay, 
 Watching and waiting Vvcarily 
 For ships that come not from the sea.— 
 Where now that fleet— ten and threescore— 
 
 27 
 
 m 
 
■ ^ ■ wi^ - *w. 'i fm Mim ii H. M m mmtHmumm^^iSKi 
 
 28 
 
 77//i I'KAST or SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Which lately sailed from Aunis's shore ? — 
 Their gallant men, whose hearts beat high 
 With a nation's hopes of victory ? — 
 That fleet so brave ? — Ay, where ? oh, where ! 
 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 
 On broad Chebucto's placid breast. — 
 Some say a score ; some, ten ; some, seven 
 In all, escaped the wrath of Heaven : 
 What mattereth it ? Bruised, tempest-tost. 
 They're but the ruins of a host. 
 Wreck of a nation's hopes, how lost ! 
 
 Now, mark yon rowers, with feeble hand. 
 Who sadly wend to pebbly 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 mould. 
 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 grip, 
 He dashes down the strong man's might, 
 
THE RENDEZVOUS OF D'ANVILLE. 
 
 39 
 
 \res. 
 
 es 
 
 O'ertakes the fugitive in flight ; 
 
 His grasp the bravest heart appals, 
 
 Who falls as meanest craven falls. 
 
 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 skin, 
 
 Plague-spotted, dark, and lank, and thin ; 
 
 Whilst shrieks of anguish fill the air, 
 
 With fainter moans of dull despair. 
 
 In vain the tented hospital 
 
 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, 
 
 Revolting every loathing sense, 
 
 Yet roams at large the Pestilence. 
 
 Now glides there in from neighbouring wild 
 The Micmac, Acadie'sown 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 Royal's delightful shore, 
 
: 
 
 30 
 
 THE /'/CAST 01- SA/XT AA'A'/i, 
 
 Resolved that there should be his home, 
 Nor sought for fairer lands to roam, 
 And patriarch- warrior Mambertou 
 A convert to the cross did bow, 
 Whilst all his nation, young and old, 
 Were numbered of the Christian fold ; — 
 Since then, whene'er the Micmac horde 
 Mas joined the hatchet to the sword, 
 It was as France's firm ally, 
 ICngland's relentless enemy. 
 
 What rancorous fate, implacable, 
 Hath led them to this charnel fell ? 
 Why wondering stay they, silent, grim, 
 'I'o gaze at festering trunk and limb ? 
 Ah ! — now ! — too late they haste away I — 
 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 ; — 
 l^^rom Canseau Cape to Port La Tour, 
 P'rom 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. 
 
THE Rr.yDE/.VOUS OF D'.LVVILLE. 
 
 3' 
 
 What mad.'ciiiiiL; thoughts now whelming roll 
 O'er proud D'Anvillc's long tortured soul ! 
 All hopes — his own — his country's — crushed — 
 No more! — his voice in death is hushed : 
 He may not — cannot longer see 
 This scene of wreck and agony. 
 Now sadly booms th<: minute gun, 
 To tell that his last sands have run ; 
 And slowly o'er the breathless tide 
 The line of boats funereal glide ; 
 i'Xnd 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 their proud Vice Admiral's; — 
 Stabbed to the heart, — now cold as stone, — 
 The blade that did the deed, his own : 
 Thus — wrecked all hope — thusphrenzied 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, 
 
f 
 
 1 
 
 '( 
 
 i i 
 
 3a 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 On whose surrounding steep inclines 
 
 Grey crags obtrude through bristling pines ; 
 
 Deep down, beneath the gloomy wave, 
 
 Behold a fleet's dark, dismal grave. 
 
 Half buried in their oozy bed 
 
 And 'neath the watery field wide spread, 
 
 Where ever, ever writhe and squirm 
 
 The snaky seaweed, slimy worm, 
 
 Their rotting timber's cavern'd cells 
 
 All crusted 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 Rochelle, 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 morn 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 ; 
 
 '^l 
 
THE RENDEZVOUS OE DWNVIILE. 
 
 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 ; — 
 'Twas here (as old traditions tell) 
 The sons of France by thousands fell ; 
 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, 
 K'en marks the spot wherein they lie, 
 Here, in their woodland cemet'ry : 
 
 To this unconsccrated hill 
 
 They followed the banner of D'Anville. — 
 
 Hard by a queenly city towers 
 
 Above Chebucto's swarming shores ; 
 
 Its ceaseless hum and ring of trade 
 
 IC'en reach this wood's sepulchral shade : — 
 
 The crowds its busy streets who throng 
 
 All speak the English tongue. 
 
 33 
 
 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. 
 
34 
 
 Tiri'. lEAST OF SAINT ANNE, 
 
 % i\ 
 
 To launcli their thunders, dcalincj woe, 
 'Gainst every rash, approacliin[]j 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. 4 
 This fort, where EuglamVs banners flaunt, 
 Is D'Anville's monument. 
 
 All praised — of course —the well loved Alfred's lay ; 
 For we were not in humour critical, 
 Or feeling had for that fond tenderness, 
 Like love of mother for her new-born babe, 
 Which feels the poet for the cherished thoughts 
 That well in music from his laboured 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 crush by cumulative blows 
 And paralyse forever Britain's power, 
 Through 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 ; 
 'Twas fated e'en to maim the strength of France : 
 
nil: KEMfE/.voi s oiirAxvn. /./■:. 
 
 35 
 
 The Micmac nation, forest race allied — 
 
 Of whom we've seen, tills day, some withered leaves — 
 
 Drew in from D'Anville's d)'in5^ followers 
 
 'J'hat which did only fail to anmhilate. 
 
 Tlic Armada's fate is one of those which still 
 
 Mi[Tht stagger doubt in 'special Providence.'" 
 
 " ]-{ut, ah," — here Madam Vernon interposed, — 
 
 " Why speculate upon ' What might have been ' ? 
 
 ]Cnougli, while Time is thundering at our souls, 
 
 To know what was, and is, and is to be. — 
 
 Alas 1 the visions of what might have been ! 
 
 Sucli perilous dreams oft bid the brain go mad." 
 
 " 1 hen I," said Philip, " in such poor ballad rhymes 
 As my untutored art commands, will tell 
 What luas — in naught miscolouring history : — 
 A simple tale of rarest heroism, 
 And of a deed of darkest, foulest crime." 
 
THE HEROINE OK ST. JOHN. 
 
 <1 
 
 'TwAS evening time in Fort St. John; * 
 The cheering light grew le.ss and less 
 
 Above that habitation lone 
 
 Hetwixt the .sea and wilderne.ss. 
 
 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 f") 
 
 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 afar, 
 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 ^the guard : 
 
 In truth that task was easy done ; 
 
 ...3* 
 

 I 
 
 THE Ill.KOlM: 01- SAIA'JyoiLW 
 
 For small in minibcr was tlic l)aiul 
 That formed our little 'garrison, 
 
 Ik'iicath Madanu' La Tour's command, 
 Witliin that fort so vviUily lone. 
 
 liut she — our gentle lady dear, 
 
 Our pride, our ^lory, and our boast! 
 
 Oil, she was good and brave, as fair — 
 Her angel presence was a host! 
 
 The flash of her commandiiiL; eye 
 
 Gave each man's arm the mi_i;ht of leii ; 
 
 And each would gladl)- death dii'iy, 
 Her sweet approving smile to win. 
 
 'Twas but two years agonc — as now, 
 Sieur La Tour was on the seas, — 
 
 She fierce D'Aulnay ditl humble low, 
 Who vainl}' souj;ht this fort to seize. 
 
 For long this region's curse he'd been 
 Thougli sailing 'neath \.\\c Jicur dc lys, 
 
 To war on women, murder men, — 
 A robber fell on land and sea. 
 
 From Fort St. John he soon withdrew 
 Before our scorning, tlauntless tlaiiie. 
 
 With shattered bark and worsted crew, 
 To gnaw his dastard heart with shame. 
 
 37 
 

 !l \U 
 
 38 
 
 '/•///■; lEAST or SAIN 'I' ANNE, 
 
 And now, as going her evening round, 
 With ail a sage commander's care, 
 
 More lightly tripped she o'er the ground ; 
 More gay than wonted was her air ; 
 
 For she had heard, with joyous mien, 
 That on the tide of Baie Franyaise 7 
 
 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 ; 
 He was her world, to whom she clave;— 
 
 She held her husband next to God. — 
 
 'Tis dawn ; but not such morning-tide 
 As we had guessed the eve before : 
 
 / . mcd ships within our harbour ride, 
 /\nd armed men are on the shore ; 
 
 Ikit these are not the ships, or men, 
 That sailed with Sieur La Tour away : 
 
 Ah, no; their vengeful chief we ken, — 
 Accurst D'Aulnay de Charnise! 
 
 
■f? 
 
 THE UEKOINE 01- SAL\T JOHN. 
 
 Now quick the drum is beat to arms; 
 
 We run the flag of France on high ; 
 The battle-fire each bosom warms 
 
 And adds a light to every eye. 
 
 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 ; — 
 
 One moment pressed her darlini: child, 
 And kissed its slumbers with a tear ; 
 
 One moment more from warfare wild- 
 She breathed a brief impassioned prayer, 
 
 Then to the ramparts hied in haste, 
 To personate her absent lord, — 
 
 A baldrick o'er her swelling breast, 
 And by her side a pendent sword. 
 
 With glowing cheek, and eye that gleamed, 
 And voice forbidding all alarm, 
 
 Yet graceful, beautiful, she seemed 
 A warrior in an angel fornj. 
 
 Her greeting from our gallant few 
 Rang cheerily on the morning air , 
 
 The> felt it joy to fight anew 
 
 For one so good, and brave, and fair.— 
 
 39 
 
 % 
 
:$•! 
 
 I ! 
 
 ii 
 
 
 
 
 
 ll 
 
 
 ,ll 
 
 ■ 
 
 'i 
 
 
 
 
 40 
 
 7//£ I' EAST OP SAIM ANNE. 
 
 Now dark D'Aulnay a parley seeks; 
 
 Demands surrender of the fort ! 
 But, ha! soon back his herald takes 
 
 An answer fearless, prompt, and short :- 
 
 "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 assailants 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. 
 
 Three days D'Aulnay's beleaguering force 
 Assailed our fort with m jht and main ; 
 
 To every wile he had recourse, — 
 To fail again and yet again. 
 
 In vain his fiercest cannonade ; 
 
 The battle sto *m we backward rolled : 
 In vain the attempted escalade ; — 
 
 We held the fort and still would hold. 
 
 ;g: 
 
■■■-> 
 
 7//E IIEROIXE OF SAINT JOHN. 
 
 No craven cry our lady heard, 
 
 Though small cu' band and sorely pressed ; 
 One soul our every Action spurred, — 
 
 Mer lion's heart in woman's breast ! 
 
 41 
 
 Yet there was one — we knew it not — 
 With cankering heart amidst us there, 
 
 Whoever some dark, hellish thought, 
 Deep hidden in his bosom, bare. 
 
 I mav not guess wliat dream he veiled 
 'Neath traitorous soul's dark panoply ; 
 
 J>ut aye methought our lady paled 
 When Ponce La Foret passed her by. — 
 
 'Twas Easter morn. — A sudden cry ! — 
 Our every heart a moment quailed : — 
 
 "The guard ! — quick — ho! — the enemy 
 Our ditch and parapet have scaled !" 
 
 Too true: a rampart's coin they'd won, 
 With skulking treachery for their guide ; 
 
 De Charnisc himself led on, 
 
 With Ponce — the traitor !— by his side. 
 
 With one wild shout of " Vive La Tour I " 
 We dash upon their bristling van ; 
 
 Where waves our lady's sword bcfi^re, 
 Herself unscathed b)' fiend or man. 
 
42 
 
 'J HE I EAST OE SAEYT AiVNE. 
 
 •O ur headlong charge the foe appalled ; 
 
 They shrank; they staggered — turned for flight; 
 D'Aulnay a parley loudly called 
 
 And waved the craven sicrnal white. 
 
 I 
 
 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 ; — 
 
 'Jlien dark and vengeful was the frown 
 Of stern D'Aulnay de Charnise. 
 
 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; 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 ft»» 
 
.'n 
 
 ht; 
 
 THE HEROINE OF SAINT JOHN, 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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 ui shame ; 
 
 I won the life that is a hell. 
 
 And she, dragged forth to bear D'Aulnay's 
 Curst master-stroke of torturinc art — 
 
 I could not — dare not meet her sraze, 
 Yet felt it burning in my heart. 
 
 43 
 
44 
 
 77//; I'l'.AST or S.I/AV AXA'E. 
 
 I! '« 
 
 I |:!l 
 
 If- -J 
 
 No sound, no utterance, passed her lips, 
 
 The while that awful deed was done, 
 As if her soul were 'neath eclipse — 
 
 Her beauteous form transformed to stone. 
 
 Then, with one lonc^, loud, piercini^ shriek, 
 
 That form upon the earth she cast. 
 No more can D'yXulnay vengeance wreak : 
 
 The heroines heart has burst at last. 
 
 She sleeps by Ouangondy'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 my shame to tell, 
 
 And mourn 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 Cutlibert. " Say not now : ' what might have 
 been;' 
 
 But had Madame LaTour but dared and died 
 
 In station not obscure — in the eye of the world, — 
 
 How would her fame ring down the aisles of time 
 
 As worshipped memory ! This * would have been.' 
 
THE HEROIXE OF SAINT yOHN. 
 
 45 
 
 sex. 
 jght have 
 
 ied 
 
 :orld, — 
 of time 
 c been! 
 
 Her woman's name would brit^hten history's page 
 
 With thcLucrctias, Joans d'Arc, of fame ; 
 
 l*\irhcrs a heart all things to dare and do, 
 
 When love and bounden duty waved her on ; 
 
 Yet, even in our country's chequered annals, 
 
 She, who so nobly battled, suffered, died, 
 
 /\nd sleei)s ' betwixt the sea and wilderness,' 
 
 Holds place unworthy of her virtue's due." 
 
 Then followed rambling converse on "woman's 
 sphere," 
 
 Tlie " intellectuality of sex," 
 
 The clashing theories of " woman s rights," 
 
 Which needless 'twere that I should reproduce. 
 
 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, 
 
 With all the powers of her mind and heart, 
 
 Whate'er the duty of the hour demands, 
 
 Ignoring all cast-iron, social codes. 
 
 Augustin now caught up the note of song. 
 
 A taciturn and sometimes gloomy youth 
 
 Augustin was, who oft allotted studies 
 
 Postponed for stolen draughts of mysticism 
 
 From those who, of the old, or recent, times, 
 
 Essay to draw the veil and formulate 
 
 Upon the secrets of a spiritual world ; 
 
 And thus the legend which he gave to verse 
 
 Was colored with the tincture of his mind. 
 
r '"_^j. 
 
 THE HAUNTED OF PORT LA JOIE. 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 Why doth old Marguerite shudder witli awe 
 In her ruinous home, liere 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 liammer, 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 tren'>blinglv signs the sign of the cross. 
 'Tis 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 — 
 
 M 
 
THE [[AUXTED OF PORT I. A JOIE. 
 
 *7 
 
 :e. 
 
 ;c 
 
 s moan ? 
 It?— 
 
 d shiver ; 
 
 nc, 
 cross. 
 
 )rm •, 
 lir, 
 e : 
 
 Through the fissured pane and the chinks in the 
 
 walls, — 
 A L,diastly glare from somewhere without, 
 lirightening, and sinking, ana swaying about: — 
 Well Marguerite that dread light kenn'd — 
 A lanthorn borne by a dead man's hand ! — 
 A sound of trampling 1 — distant — dull, 
 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 )'ears ; 
 Distinctly terrible all ; the}' seem 
 Like the sou'.ids one hears in a nightmare dream, — 
 Too low Lo waken the struij^ling 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 
 
 That catcheth away the listener's breath ! 
 
 More dread than the charge and the thunder of 
 battle. 
 
 That muttering threat of the coming death, 
 
 Like the warning sound of the fierce rattlesnake 
 
 E'er its venomous spring from the covering brake. 
 
■■?te 
 
 48 
 
 /■///■; /■/■:. IS 7' OF s.i/X'i' .inn/-:. 
 
 J'. 
 
 m 
 
 "Make ready! — Present !" — in sepulchral tone. 
 
 The cokl lit^ht on tlie pane more bluely shone; 
 
 Then a crashing, hollow, deadened sound, 
 
 Like a chamber exploded beneath tlic ground ; 
 
 A smothered shriek and one long, low groan, 
 
 Which tells that some awful dvcd is done ; 
 
 i\nd the old liouse rocks, antl door and sash 
 
 Tremble and creak to the rumbling crash. 
 
 Again through the surcring storm is heard 
 
 That thrilling, deep commanding word : — 
 
 " Order arms !" — 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 bovvs her head on the cold hearthstone. 
 
 * * iti * * 
 
 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 dwellers at Port La Joie ; — 
 
 

 r.T-ff 
 
 V7//-: //irx/7:/> Oh roi<r i.A you-:. 
 
 Full llnvc-scorc years since Marguerite 
 First L^uided ti\ither her wcu)- feet, — 
 Font; weary years, and dreary abode 
 Wn- one of mortal tlesh and blood. 
 All I'ort I>a Joie will sinulderin^i; tell 
 Of some awful (\(iki(S, tiiat tliere befell ; 
 Of unearthly sounds and siLjhts t(j appal, 
 In that lone old liou-^e, at e\'cn-fall ; 
 Of doings that min-de with nn'dni^ht storm 
 To witness would cunlle the life-blood warm. 
 Like murderer's corpse on i^ibbet swaying, 
 
 E'er unapproached b\' willing feet, 
 All save the bravest heart dismaving, 
 
 [s the dwellinLT lone of Marcjuerite. 
 
 'Tis three-score years — ay, scarcely more,- 
 Since Port La Joie's wide-windijig shore, — 
 As history and legend tell — 
 Rang to the Micniac battle yell, 
 What time a swarm of warriors swart 
 Raved o'er the waters from Baic Verte, 
 Wilh 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, 
 As tidal Fundy's foaming bore — 
 Ensanguined wave by fury rid, — 
 
 49 
 
i 
 
 50 
 
 Till: ri:AST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Rolls o'cM' the saiuls of Cobc([ui(l. 
 
 And sudden as tliat wave rolls back, 
 
 W'rcck-ladcn, on its scoured track, 
 
 So lied the murderous Souricjuois 
 
 J^'roni sacked and pillaged I'ort La Joic. 
 
 Yet did not Croisille's soldiery 
 
 Jiack w ith their savage comrades hie, 
 
 J kit staid to hold in garrison 
 
 The i)ost for which they'd fought and won. 
 
 Jkit 'tis not England's late mischance, 
 The triumph of the arms of T'rance, 
 Nor his own pride of victory, 
 That brightens stern Croisille's dark eye ; 
 Yet fierce the rapture is and grim 
 J'\'itc unexpected tenders him. 
 
 The cup of joy he now may quaff 
 Foams with red vengeance deep and fell — 
 With vengeance that might gladden hell, — 
 
 A jo}- 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 
 
Til J: HAUNTED Of- VOKl l.A JO IE, 
 
 To death .'iiul to dishonoured tomb, — 
 The traitor's and deserter's doom. 
 Witli ICn^cdisii prisoners just seized, 
 Straif^lit Isitlore was reco^iii/.ed 
 As one who Fr.mcc allej^iance owes, 
 Yet minj^les witli his countr)''s foes. 
 'Tis vain to plead that war's mischance 
 Mas thrown him 'mid 'Jie foes of France : 
 Sh'm pretext e'er needs j)assions' tliirst, — 
 And passion phrenzied — at its worst — 
 
 To snatch the shd^ini; cup presented : 
 Dorantc, all ravenini;;, c^rasped his prey; — 
 One faltering hour misj^ht snatch away 
 
 The draught for which his bosom panted. 
 The fettered prisoner's \isaL;e showed 
 No suppliant in abasement bowed, 
 
 Sweet mercy's gift of life to crave: 
 To scowling brows he Hung b;ick scorn ; 
 Defiance, too, of hatred born, 
 
 The victim to his doomsman crave. 
 Though all who saw the twain would swear 
 One mother's womb that twain did bear ; 
 
 Yet neither spake the name of " brother" ; 
 As if their hate with life was bred, 
 Through ages long inherited, 
 
 Each scowled his rancor on the other. — 
 
 SI 
 
 1; 
 
 \\\ 
 
53 
 
 rilK FEAST 01- SAIX'l ANNE. 
 
 I'^orth is the prisoner led to his doom, 
 1.1 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 'tis not meet such a deed of dread 
 In the light of heaven be consummated ! — 
 To his cold bed of ilcath, unconfessed and ur.shriven, 
 Still to one unforgiving, by one unforgivcn, 
 l^eyond 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, 
 i\nd the words of command, — deep, hollow, and 
 
 hoarse — 
 To make of his manhood a quivering corse. — 
 Now 'tis Halt and Make ready : the dark lanthorn's 
 light 
 
 Flashes full on his face with its sickening glare : 
 'Tis the face of a spectre, so terribly white, 
 
 Evoked from the darkness and death-laden air; 
 
 Whilst the black rains upon and around him fall, 
 
 .\s 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, 
 
 And held e'en death in mockery. 
 
s 
 
 Till-: llAi'X77-n OF PORT I, A JO IE. 
 
 The last commandinc^ word he hoars 
 
 The last shall c^n-ect his mortal cars : 
 
 'Tis giv(M, and quick— a crashin<,r volley _ 
 
 A SLidccii start — one moment's rally 
 
 He falls — with one convulsive shiver, 
 The victim's soul hath passed forever. 
 
 S3 
 
 it 
 
 In that one moment, of life the last. 
 What far-drawn vision of the past 
 
 Shot, with the bullet, throui^di his brain? 
 And, by some secret sympath}-, 
 The gazing- murderer's inward eve 
 
 Knew all that vision's surging pain ; 
 As if the intensity of hate — 
 
 As love's excess draws mate to mate 
 
 Had made community of soul, 
 In that dread ecstasy compelling 
 Twain memories of thought and feeling 
 
 In one tumultuous stream to roll.— 
 The lightning flash of memory 
 Recalled to murderer's, victim's eye 
 A vision bright of lands afar, 
 By castled banks of sunny Loir;— 
 Two brothers skipping o'er the lea, 
 All happiness and lamb-like 'dee 
 With laughing eye and ringing voice 
 To make e'en wrinkled ca-e rejoice; 
 
54 
 
 THE FEAST c SAIN 7 ASNE. 
 
 \\ i 
 
 ' K 
 
 i « 
 
 Or, hand in hand, in t^ravcr mood, 
 
 As if their linked brotherhood 
 
 Bc<^at 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 glow became, — 
 
 Launched on that chaos called t/ie world, 
 
 And 'mid its myriad 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, true : 
 
 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, relentless, 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 beauteous maid stands by, 
 
 p 
 
THE HAUNTED OF PORT LA JOIE. 
 
 55 
 
 With wicked smile and mocking eye, — 
 A form whose wiles and witching grace 
 Mi^^ht 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. 
 
 W 
 
 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 "v'.'i-etched shr«jd 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 anrl died. 
 
 ♦ * * * 
 
 The name Croisille is heard no more 
 On Port La Joie's now peaceful shore ; 
 
56 
 
 THE I'EASl' OF S.IIA'7' ANNE. 
 
 Nor ever seen the fla<^" of I'^'ance 
 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 untoltl 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 deca)'etl ; 
 But whence she came, or when, or how, 
 Not wisest gossips feign to know. 
 Her lofty majesty of mien 
 Might M^ell become an exiled queen ; 
 Her face, 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 cv'n as if she smiled ihrouijh sadness. 
 
 '4 
 
 I 
 
 ^^ 
 
THE HAUNTED OF PORT LA JO IE. 
 
 57 
 
 :■■* 
 
 There dwells she lone, in humble weeds, 
 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, 
 
 Or known, but to the All-seeing Eye. — 
 And ever as the changeful years 
 She spent in penances and prayers, — 
 And e'er as Time his tremors shed 
 Upon her bowed and snowy head, — 
 And awful sightr. and sounds were known 
 To float around her dwelling lone. 
 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, 
 
 * 
 
 Now Marguerite's last prayer is said ; 
 And she is numbered with the dead : 
 The secret of her life she gave 
 That greater mystery, the grave : 
 
 ' [1 
 
 E 
 
 
58 
 
 THE PEA ST Of SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Whate'er her grief, whate'er her sin, 
 
 'Tis all as she had never been, — 
 
 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 )'et around that haunted spot ^ — 
 
 Wherefore, unknown, or long forgot — 
 
 'Tis 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 ; 
 
 A nd 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 
 
THE HAUNTED OF PORT LA JO IE, 
 
 59 
 
 Of armed men in the troubled air 
 Comin<T — coming —steady — slowly, 
 
 l^rincfiiicf the sense of a comin<T doom, 
 And the muffled 'drum, so melancholy, 
 
 Beatin"-thc march that U ads 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, n volleying crash, 
 
 And a harrowing shriek goes up to the sky, — 
 A shriek, as of a parting soul 
 
 Which murderc'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 
 The midnight storm roars on again. 
 
 '■I 
 
 Augustin's legend evoked, amid its praise, 
 Much talk of weirdly apparitioiis, 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 "oft called — 
 The wit and wag of all our compau}- — ■ 
 With new found gravit)- converse prolonged, 
 
6o 
 
 rilK FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 AiTecting movement keen and awe profound 
 At this wild tale of glamourie, — 
 So guileless seeming 'twere difficult to guess 
 If his emotion real were, or feigned. 
 
 "'Twould seem," — here Cuthbert said, — "our 
 friends have all 
 Eschewed, as burden of their numbered lays, 
 What we, too rashly, 'the tender passion ' call. 
 Oi Love, co-ordinate with passion's self, — 
 Which doubtless woke the first song of f/rst 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: 
 
BERTRAM AND MADELIUNE, 
 
 A LEGEND OF I'OKT ROYAL. 
 
 How sweet the Summer u\g;ht o'er Port Royal ' ^^ 
 From where uprears the sombre mountain wall 
 Its rampart line against the Northern sky, 
 O'er valley, stream, and bastion'd promont'ry, 
 To nearer swellin'j: of the Southern hills, 
 Repose in ecstasy the evening fills ! 
 A tenuous vapor, born of sunset beams, — 
 So thinly blue, reflected sky it seems, 
 Or evening's breath suspended in mid air — 
 Rests floatingly upon that valley fair. 
 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 OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 A bell's low tinkle floats upon the air 
 From distant fields where rest the dozing herd, 
 Or cricket lonely chirping 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 Royal, — Cai)e, and Hay, and bastioncd mound, 
 Imagination scarce can dream that e'er 
 The demon, War, had raged through carnage there; 
 Yet o'er this lovely spot, first chosen home 
 \\y either race beyond the Atlantic foam, 
 Have Gaul and i\lbion for a century warred, 
 As pledge of empire, victory's reward. 
 No other spot in all the Western workl 
 So oft hath seen the battle (lag unfurled ; '^ 
 So often been the battering cannon's targe ; 
 So oft the goal of lieadlong battle charge ; 
 So often heard the Indian war-whoop dread, 
 Or been by spoilers' ruthless hands bested ; 
 So often borne, in war's alternate chance, 
 The flag of ICngland and the flag of France. 
 
 K'cn now this fortress, late by I^ngland won, 
 Is girt by toils to England's sons unknown ; 
 And danger lurks in ever\' neighbouring wood, 
 Where all seems peace and silent solitude. 
 For now within the coasts of Acadie 
 There bideth one with ever watchful eye 
 
BER TKA M . I XD .V.I Dl'.l. ELM'.. 
 
 6i 
 
 To note whatever Knj^laiul's power befal! ; 
 
 Oi all her foes the most implacable ; 
 
 Heir of the dariiifj, subtlety, aiul 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 scornin;jj love-conventional's duress, 
 
 Espoused a daughter of the wilderness ; — 
 
 Whom Abenaqui and Armouchequois, 
 
 The patient Etchemin, fierce Souriquois, 
 
 Alike obeyed, to serve through flood and fire, 
 
 To reverence his wish, to dread his ire ; 
 
 Less France's subject than her firm ally, 
 
 New England's dread, the scourge of Acadie; 
 
 A chief of Sachems chosen, yet no less 
 
 Tlie very tyrant of the wilderness ; 
 
 Whose name, through years of blood, a spell had 
 
 been 
 To friend and foe — the liaron dc Saint Castine.'- 
 lle left, as chief, to rule his savage state, 
 Heir of his own and of his nation's hate, 
 To revel, like himself, 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, 
 A bark canoe slides down the oozy bank 
 
_ a 
 
 64 
 
 THE I'EAyr of saint anne. 
 
 All stealthily, 'mid j^rasscs 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 Wiien slowly, softly passed the fort, away 
 
 The 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 water skimming like the winged swift. 
 
 When glancing downward from the Summer lift 
 
 To brush, with feathered breast, the placid wave : 
 
 The tide scarce seems the flying bark to lave. 
 
 Soon Biencourville's low isle *^ is left behind ; 
 
 Nor e'er his arrowy course he once restrained 
 
 Till sweeping round, 'twixt hills and woodlands tall, 
 
 He floated on the tide of L'Orignal.^^ 
 
 More softly dips the swift-propelling blade ; 
 
 The wanderer courts the lofty shore's deep shade. 
 
 And slowly follows up the narrowing gorge 
 
 To where the stream's impetuous discharge, 
 
 Rushing and brawling from the mountain side. 
 
 Is lapped to slumber in the briny tide. 
 
HEKTRAM AND MADELEIiXE, 
 
 65 
 
 There lands the voyager, 'neath forest dark, 
 And tenderly takes up his fragile bark, 
 Conceals it 'mid the brush and branching ferns, 
 Then towards the bosom of the hills he turns, 
 With stealthy step, quick ear, and peering eye, 
 And plunges 'neath the sombre canopy. 
 
 Who speedeth thus away from fort and town, 
 To brave the dangers of the woods alone ? 
 And what the cause of this mysterious flight, 
 Ikneath the covering wing of silent night ? 
 'Tis Bertram, darling of the garrison 
 Of Port Royal, than whom no braver son 
 Of England, or her New World daughters true, 
 IC'er faced a foeman, oi a weapon drew. 
 With senses all alert and prescience keen, 
 And ever loyal heart to serve his Queen ; 
 Mayhap too rash, e'er foremost in the attack, 
 He 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 ^'im thus to rove; — 
 His steps are guided by the light of love ! — 
 That passion which has overmastered all 
 That ever held the human soul in thrall, 
 E'er since the world emotional's young prime, — 
 As e'er it will until the end of time ; 
 
. m 
 
 I 
 
 66 
 
 TUK 1 EASl OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Mcltb hardest heart and maddens strongest brr.ln ; 
 Life's greatest bliss; yet oft, alas! its bane; — 
 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 self — the loved to win, or save. 
 
 Who glideth forth from wild wood -fashioned cell, 
 At midnight hour, in forest's deepest dell ? 
 With listening air, siie now a moment stands : 
 Near by, upon the ground, the smouldering brands 
 Just flashing up a transitory glare, — 
 A flood of splendor 'mid the darkling air — 
 Reveal a maiden figure lithe and tall, 
 The fulness of nriturity withal, — 
 More graceful fcM-ni of perfect symmetry 
 Ne'er charmed an artist's, or a lover's, eye. 
 The dusk}- tint th;it overspreads her cheek, 
 I^irichmg all its bll^shos. may bespeak, 
 Or kindred to these wildwoods' native fai', 
 Or long exposure to the sun and air. 
 Hie deep, rich crimson of her parted lips 
 May e'en the budding tamarac eclipse : 
 i^lack as the night .that spreads around, her hair, 
 In linked braids, is ribanded with care. 
 
BERTRAM AND MA DELE] XE. 
 
 67 
 
 There is refinement chisel'd in that face, — 
 
 In every outline gentleness and grace ; 
 
 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 — 
 
 'Neath all their witching, melting tenderness, 
 
 Which now irradiates her anxious face, 
 
 There slumber yet more active fires, which tell 
 
 Of passions, wakened once, invincible; 
 
 By weal, or woe, alike intensified — 
 
 A marching torrent, strong as Fundy's tide. 
 
 Her garb is th it of daughters of ^he wild ; 
 ]^ut such as civilization's cultured child, 
 With tissues rich, but dcora'.ion chaste. 
 Would deftly fashion to the eye of taste. 
 From dainty moccasin to r^\^on tress, 
 She seems a Princess of the Wilderness. — 
 But seems } Nay, is ; that maid is Madeleine. 
 The Sister of young Sicur de Saint Castine, 
 
 Her guard of dusky warriors lie around, 
 In attitudes relaxed, upon the ground ; 
 As e'er their savage wont, no wacch they keen ;- 
 Their mistress' eye alone hath banished sleep. 
 'Tis not to list for step of prowling foe 
 She wanders forth with noiseless ste{) and slow ; 
 'Tis not, with yearning breast, to gaze on high, 
 \v'here sister stars arc twinkling lovingly ; 
 
 
 . ( 
 
 r 
 
<8 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 'Tic not to list the note of whip-poor-will, 
 That whistles lonely from the neighbouring 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 length a well remembered note she hears. 
 As of a night-bird's low and lonely cry, 
 But seldom heard beneath Acadia's sky. — 
 It is the signal dear : — away, alarms ! 
 Now Madeleine is in her Bertram's arms. 
 
 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. 
 And love infatuated builds her nest 
 Midst bristling thorns and venomous w^eeds of hate. 
 The harsh world scorning and defying fate. — 
 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. 
 The exultant foe his wound ed prisor.er bore 
 To that filmed spot, by broad Penobscot's shore. 
 Where Saint Castine, within his dreaded fort, 
 Long held baronial, semi-savage court, 
 
BERTRAM AND MADELEINE. 
 
 6^ 
 
 With many an errant son of French noblcssey 
 And fiercer nobles from the wilderness ; 
 Where chivalry with savagery combined, 
 Each interpenetrating the other's kind. 
 
 There Bertram first saw Madeleine's dark eye 
 And, seeing, knew he met his destiny. 
 She saw in him the flower of soldierhood, 
 And admiration fired her warrior blood ; 
 She saw him prisoned, wounded, in sore unrest, 
 And yearnful pity moved her woman's breast ; 
 Soon ruth and admiration love bewray, 
 As rain and sunshine bring the flowers of May. 
 She tended him with kindest care and skill, 
 A prisoner favoured, though a prisoner still ; 
 His restless captors often came and went, 
 On warlike schemes and desperate raids intent ; 
 Yet Bertram staid, a captive and a guest, 
 In Fort Pentagoet and Madeleine's breast. 
 
 There was a winning witchery in her grace, 
 As of the m-.idens of her father's race, 
 But with that unrestrained simplicity 
 Which scorns the shallow arts of coquetry 
 And gives to love untrammelled all love's due, — 
 A heart all loyal, undefiled, and true, 
 But welling up with passions deep and wild — 
 Which proved the blood of Madockwando's child. 
 She little recked that all who shared her blood 
 
 :l 
 
70 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 .Hli!.-*' 
 
 Held Bertram one of an accursed brood, 
 Wliom none of them, or theirs, could ever know 
 As aui^ht save their uncompromising foe. 
 As little Bertram recked the lofty scorn 
 With which his haughty kindred, gentle born, 
 Would gaze on Madeleine, his dusky bride. 
 His Indian Princess, and his bosom's pride. 
 They both, 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 'neath uncloudeu face of trackless snow 
 The winter torrent boils and raves below. 
 For each a heavenly sun had set in gloom ; 
 Yet madly each defied the seeming doom, 
 And fondly hoped — nay, inly vowed amain. 
 Their light of life and love should rise again." 
 No marvel 'twas that fearless Madeleine, 
 The favoured 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. 
 Though cultured as became a baron's child, 
 She loved the freedom of the forest wild ; 
 
BERT R A M A YD MA DEL EINE . 
 
 She with a huntress' eye could draw the bow, 
 And skillfully could <^uide the liijht canoe ; 
 Well, too, the dusky warriors she could sway ; 
 They loved her father's claughter to obey. 
 Her message covert and mysterious sign, — 
 Which keenest intellect could ne'er divine, 
 Unlesslong 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 ineftable. 
 
 7« 
 
 fi 
 
 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. 
 The elysian atmosphere suffusing all : — 
 Who e'er hath truly loved must truly know 
 How vain the attempt its mad delight to show ; 
 And ill as vain ; for e'er the bower of love 
 Should to the world a sacred precinct {)rovc. — 
 
 When, — Where, — and how were they to meet 
 
 again 
 
 ? 
 
 Saint Castine might return — she k'^'^w not when. 
 That brother — ever on a restless round — 
 Had late departed, — fust to IMinas bound : 
 
 ^p 
 
7* 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 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. — 
 Tliese Habitants — here Bertram caught the word, 
 Were now forthwith to carry out the accord 
 As pledged by Subercase, in writt'jn terms, 
 When Port Royal succumbed to British arms. 
 And he himself was one of armed band 
 Who, two days hence, and by express command, 
 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 ; 
 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 sounds disturbs the solitude: 
 'Twas but some curious sauirrel, 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. — 
 
BERTRAM AND MADELEIXE . 
 
 With anxious eye the maiden (glances 'round 
 Where lie her warrior guard in sleep 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. 
 
 73 
 
 Tis day at Port Royal : from fort and town 
 The morning mist, which, but an hour agone, 
 Dav/n-generated, like a silver fleece, 
 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 splendour 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. 
 The boats that on the yellow Dauphin ride 
 Float gently upwards with the rising tide ; 
 So faint the stroke the drowsy rowers make. 
 That scarce a ripple follows in their wake. 
 That little armament was blithe and gay, 
 And rang with many a laugh and wordy play, 
 When first, this morn, it sailed from Port Royal. 
 
 F 
 
 1.1 
 
74 
 
 'J HI: jJ':asv o/- s.i/a"/- anne. 
 
 Though not oblivious of duty's call 
 
 The armed band that small llotilla bore — 
 
 Of all the fort's brave c^arrison the flower, — 
 
 Yet now the laui^h, the jest, the tale, are done ; — 
 
 E'en spirits most effusive, one by one. 
 
 Have ' nk in dreamy lan^ .^'M' 'n- th the bla^'e 
 
 Of that hit^h Summer sun's 'crjj. .werinf^ rays. 
 
 The boats are drawn wili -.j a i-'-'mmin^- creek : 
 A season brief of crrateful rest to seek, 
 All hands, oppressed by noontide lassitude, 
 Make feeble haste to t^ain the inviting wood. 
 
 The arms are piled ; accoutrements unbraced ; 
 
 And all deliciously the coolness taste. 
 
 In bowered grots of deepest greenery, 
 
 They 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, and 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, 
 
 As of a host of demons burst from hell I 
 
 The rattle and the crash of musketry; 
 
BERl KIM .WD M.\ 1)1:1. IJXE 
 
 75 
 
 And .jLiick the shriek ofdyiii.;- aL;oiiy ! — 
 Too cU tliat Indian uar-whoop dread is known: 
 Tis > lint Casti'ic vvlio leads the as,aiKints on ; 
 And ^ercely bounding thnni^h the smoke and brake, 
 With eyes aflanv? t-l.jir burnini;- wrath to shike, 
 Ami brandislied toniaiiau k, and vengefid cry, 
 Tiiey hurl themselves upon their helpless prey. 
 The flashinf^ hatchet crashes throui^h the brain ; 
 The L;ory scalpinL;"-knife insults the slain ; — 
 Like sudden whirlwind is the tlreadful charge; 
 Unciiecked the sava;4es their veni^'eance t^ori^'e ; 
 Surprised and stunned, their unarmed Kni^lish foe 
 Aie vanc[uished e'er they scarce can strike a blow;i" 
 To strive is hopeless and to fl)' is vain ; 
 Who either ventures mingles with the slain. 
 
 Yet still a scattered, strui^i^ling few there were 
 Wlio fought with all the courage of despair; 
 And there, with dauntless front, still Bertram stood, 
 With red right arm and keen sword dripping blood ; 
 Tile gasping forms around him prostrate laid 
 i^'oclaimed how well he bore that venging blade ; 
 Yet, tottering now and faint from many a wound, 
 Assailant new in Saint Castine he found. 
 Whose death-winged tomahawk is raised on hi<jh — 
 
 What sudden shadow tlits o'er Bertram's eye ? 
 'Tis Madeleine who, like a flash of light, 
 Glides through the dread turmoil and thickest fiLrht; — 
 
, .. ^ mm • 
 
 76 
 
 yy/A' lEAST ('/'■ SAINT ANNE. 
 
 With one raised arm tlic dcatli-blow to arrest, 
 The other clasps lier Bertram to lier breast : — 
 '* Stay, stay ! — clear I leaven ! — brother ! — Saint 
 
 Castine ! 
 Oh, stay thy liand ; and be tliis prisoner mine." 
 
 The chieftain's arm drops harmless to his side : 
 lie stands, in sore amazement petrified ; 
 Jirief 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 Hfe and 
 death. 
 Recalled a life-time with a passing breath ; 
 When all the memories of past joy and pain 
 Came quick careering thorough either brain, 
 Experiences of struggling hopes and fears — 
 The uprisen spectres of departed years 5 
 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. 
 Since, linked by death, they never more should part. 
 One moment she in Bertram's eyes gazed on 
 The dying love-light mirrored from her own, 
 
BERTRAM AND MA DEI. El XI.. 
 
 77 
 
 And smiled, and miirnuiriiif^,— *' 'tis well — 'tis well," — 
 They tottered — closer pressed — and dyini; fell. 
 'Tis i.h'll, indeed ! — to 'scape the trembler's 
 doom ; 
 To see no horror in the i^apinc;' tomb; 
 To end, in one brief moment, dread and dole, 
 Comminj4lin<^ life-blood as they minj^le soul, 
 And shun that dreary desert of tiie heart, — 
 A life bereft of all life's dearer part ; 
 The world and all its vanities to brav^e, 
 And wed in peace, thou^jh wedded in the ^rave ; 
 To live that changeless love that lives forever. 
 And blends in one the gifted and the giver. 
 
 ;* 
 
 War's gory surges long have ebbed away 
 From every shore- and vale of Acadic: 
 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 lightnings gashed and rent, — 
 Been rolled unheeded from the brightening sky, 
 A waning shadow on the memory. 
 Time's e'er-creating, e'er-destroying hand 
 Hath made Acadia's self another land. 
 Where erst were field and hamlet scattered wide, 
 By many a river's fertilizing tide, 
 Recalling quaintly to the ear and eye 
 
7« 
 
 rill: ii.Asr or sMxr a.wi:. 
 
 An old l^rcta^nc, I'oitoii, or NormancHc, 
 AnotluT race liavc spread — another tonj^ue — 
 Unlike as from another planet flunjjf ; 
 And peaceful arts and labour's busy liand 
 Have spread a bri^htenini:^ K'ory o'er the land : 
 All, all is changed ; even spots most famed, no more 
 Now bear the names which once they proudly bore. 
 
 Antl Madeleine and Bertram, side by side, 
 Sleep the lonp^ 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 lowly monument. 
 The wind-harp, wailing through the chambered grove, 
 lireathes o'er their grave the requiem of love ; 
 And oft tlie maidens of the neighbouring vale 
 Recount full tenderly their simple tale. 
 And point, with melting eye and lowered breath, 
 Where Madeleine and Bertram wed in death. 
 
 We all bewailed the lovers' piteous case ; 
 JUit chief Pauline maintained, it was too sad 
 That love so faithful thus should terminate, 
 E'en though perturbed in its fated course. 
 " Ah, no ! " said Cuthbert, "their fate was typical. 
 These blissful issues of which romancers tell 
 Are merely pictures drawn by kindly art 
 To win the gaze of sufferers forlorn 
 
JU-:KTh'.lM .IA7J .i/.//v;/,/;/A'A 
 
 n 
 
 I'Voiu dwelling ever upon dismal fact. 
 
 Stern (lisappoiiitnieiit is tlie rule dI life ; 
 
 Our liappiest thoughts are tliose we kn<nv in 
 
 dreams." 
 " Tis strange," said Madam, as in self-commune, 
 " How often youtli sees more of ^^loom in life 
 Than darks the experi' .iccd eyes of wrecked three- 
 score ! " 
 Here I'Vank impressively attention claimed : 
 T]ien,with most solemn mien and stirring tone, — 
 Though with a roguisli twinkle in his eye — 
 He told this weirdly tale of Glamourie. — 
 
 I r 
 
 .i 
 
THE LAST WITCH OF SHUBENACADIE. 
 
 Time was, e'er Steam, with hands Briarean, 
 And men whose faitli is Nothing-arian — 
 Which never mystery acknowl'xlgcs — 
 And Science, with its thousand ologies, 
 And hot-house scliools, and sapient colleges, 
 Had scared from their propriety 
 All Black Art and deft Glamourie ; — 
 Ere fay and gobhn had levanted 
 From every weirdly den tiiey haunted, 
 Till even ghosts no longer stalk- 
 In ancient church-yard's weediest walk, 
 Or, restive, nightly hover wliere 
 Their murdered bodies are — or were, — 
 In atmosphere of whitey-blue, 
 .\s honest ghosts had used to do. 
 They now, like morning callers knocking 
 (Familiarity quite shocking! 
 Of that degree which breeds contempt, 
 h'rom which e'en sprites are not exempt) 
 To let us know of their arrival ; — 
 The latest " spiritual world's revival" 
 
THE LAST Wl'ICH 01' SUilUiNACADir.. 
 
 8l 
 
 Discuss, or prate of joys and labours, — 
 Or else talk scandal of their nciLrhbours 
 In heaven, or the other place, — 
 And tell whose damned, or gotten ijrace. 
 
 Time was, then, even in rhis same land, 
 We enjoyed our terrors at first hand. 
 No pretext had we e'er to choose 
 Consort with foreign bug-a-boos, 
 Importing fiom beyond the seas 
 And Old World sorcery-factories. 
 We had them all, from A to izzard^-- 
 Ghost goblin, fairy, witch, and wizard — 
 AJl home-bred here and native, — what you call 
 The occult order supernatural. 
 
 Those palmj^ days — whate'er that means — 
 Of errant elves and witching queans 
 Nowhere produced a surer crop 
 Of mischief from the devil's shop; 
 Nowhere have oftener goblins reveled, 
 Nor beasts domestic got bedeviled, 
 Nor imps, by hell's dark guile polluted, 
 For sinless babes, been substituted ; 
 
 Nowhere did witch with more alacrity 
 
 E'er mount her broomstick for a steed, 
 
 And hie away o'er hill and mead, 
 
 To hurry up some helli.sh deed, — 
 
 Than by the banks of Shubenacadie.'^ 
 
82 
 
 JllE J-EASr Ol- SAIXT AiWE. 
 
 Now cill this Dalton Moore well knew, 
 y\nd many a wondrous lei^cnd, too, 
 Of ghastly deeds and witches' pranks 
 iVbout that river's haunted banks. 
 Not that he dreaded mystic evil : 
 He swore he feared not man, or devil ; — 
 1 le had a secret of his own 
 Would foil the most malicious crone 
 
 That practiced under hell's diploma. 
 WwX. 'tivas a secret he had won 
 From a wanderinij^ Saint Crispin's son, — 
 
 Krom County Clare — near l^allycroma — 
 .\t Conley's tavern, one glorious night, 
 When, after a doubly gallant fight, 
 
 To prove their friendship was true-hearted. 
 Brave Dalton stood a pint ^f rum, 
 And, imposing oaths to keep it fiun, 
 
 The witch-specific Dan imparted. 
 Yet Dalton, in his mildest mood. 
 Was death upon the Vvhole witch brood, 
 And ever scorned, and jeered, and baited 
 All scraggy beldams, whom he hated, 
 Believing in his inmost heart, 
 Tliey practiced Satan's own Black Art. 
 Most odious butt of his suspicion, 
 His frecjuent wrath, and eke derision. 
 Was Peggy Boan — oft f(M-enamed " Granny " — 
 Wliom more than Dalti)n thought " uncanny ; " 
 
J'HK I.ASl' WriCII 01- SHUBExWACADlE. 
 
 83 
 
 For she was all that makes the crone, — 
 Old, toothless, wrinkled ; dwelt alone ; 
 In herbs and nostrums much she prided ; 
 And when she wandered forth she guided 
 Her steps decrepit with a crutch. — 
 What more was wanted for a witch ? 
 
 Scene : nightfall by the river's shore ; 
 There present, j-^/z/i-, Dalton iMoore; 
 A caldron, empty, huge — some brands 
 Still smoking on the pasty sands ; 
 An aged shallop, br.ttered, scarred. 
 Whose scams have just been newly tarred ; 
 r •• Moore — good man — could turn his hand 
 To work at sea as well 's on land. 
 To him arrives old l*egg/ Hoan, 
 Just toddling homeward, quite alone, 
 I'^rom cosy tea and clack at will 
 With Goody Mason, back o' the hill. — 
 
 "So, ho! there" — Dalton loquitur — 
 '*You muttering old Jezebel, 
 You've come to try some cursed spell 
 Upon my schooner's new fit-out ! — 
 Your beauty 't would improve, no doubt, 
 To paint it with this nice warm pitch," 
 He twirled his pitch-mop like a sw itch 
 
 And made a savage "poke " at her. — 
 
84 
 
 THE FEAST OE SAINT ANNE. 
 
 Good Lord ha' merc}- ! What is this ? — 
 Moore heard a most demoniac hiss, 
 And in an instant nerveless sank ; — 
 To all his senses all was blank. — '■ 
 
 What next ? Reviving with a shiver, 
 He, wondering, found himself afloat 
 
 Upon the rushing, roaring river, — 
 And not on raft, canoe, or boat, 
 
 WvX in such devilish craft as never 
 Till now e'er mortal went to sea in ; 
 For, face to face 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 ! 
 
 Now to right twirling, « 
 
 Now to left whirling. 
 With a dizzying, confusing, dumbfoundering motion ; 
 
 Anon undulating. 
 
 Whilst yet sinuating, 
 Still wended its way the boiler towards ocean — 
 Without paddle, or oar, as if by its own wish — 
 Still wound iLs way through this infernal schottische. 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! Ho, ho, ho ! 
 Mv.1 rily with the tide we go. — 
 I.i\ iiour of doom 
 ''\'ili sou!) hpve conv.. ; 
 But this :! .;:it ijowu" is given to mc : 
 
THE LAST WTTLTI OT SIIL'BENACADIE. 
 
 85 
 
 My hour of doom 
 
 Is not yet conic — 
 One nighi; for vengeance and for glee ! " 
 
 Thus sang the beldam, Pcgg}^ Boan — 
 Her song was laugh, and shriek, and groan ; 
 Whilst in the caldron Moore and she 
 Crouched, face to face and knee to knee. 
 The devils' answering, laughing roars, 
 From rocks and woods along the shores, 
 Poor Dalton heard and shrank aghast, 
 His soul with speechless dread o'ercast. 
 He felt his very blood run cold, 
 As on the cursed caldron bowled 
 By gypsum cliff so ghastly white, 
 From which poor ruined Maggie Knight 
 Sprang headlong with her base-born child — 
 Moore now could hepr her shriekings wild ; — 
 Beneath the crags of " Antony's Nose," 
 Above which e'er a death-light glows 
 The night before, within its view, 
 The Ail-destroyer strikes anew — 
 Moore saw it glaring through the gloom, 
 And knew his hour had well nigh come; — 
 Now round the point where, on the flat. 
 Big Mick Malonc and Charley i'ratt. 
 Fast clenched and mad with hate and drinking, 
 In quicksands sunk and still are sinking; — 
 
 /r;;// ^^' ;? 
 
86 
 
 1 UK F/iAST or SALM A AX/-. 
 
 !1 
 
 , I 
 
 !1 
 
 Now past where youths and maidens seven, 
 
 With songs and h'lughtcr mocking Heaven, 
 
 Whilst on the flood all reckless borne 
 
 Towards house of pra\ er, one Sunda)' morn, 
 
 Heard not the tide-rips' angr\' roar, 
 
 And were engul})hed for evermore — 
 
 Hut Dalton 'neath the eddying swell 
 
 Can hear their awful laughter still ; — 
 
 Now by the (Opening dclTs low glade, 
 
 With darkest fringe of beechwootl shade, 
 
 Where oft was seen — as 't is to night, — 
 
 The spectre woman all ir. white, 
 
 Slow gliding o'er the herbage damp. 
 
 And in her outstretched hand a lamj). 
 
 As if still seeking to discover 
 
 A priceless treasure lost forever. 
 
 Now Dalton felt his hair to bristle, 
 
 The very death-chills 'round him rustle, 
 
 As swept they past " The Eagle's Nest," 
 
 About whose crags antl wooded crest 
 
 The troops of ghosts, b)' violence made 
 
 Within that headland's farthest shade, 
 
 Return, m death's ai)palling form, 
 
 And nightly anTul rites perform. 
 
 Again he sees Tom Aloresbx- ride, 
 
 On Coal-black steed, the rushing tide. 
 
 As when that nuuldeiiM wretch was seen. 
 
THE LAST UTICII 01 SUUnENACADIK. 
 
 87 
 
 In years loi\f^ past, witii fearless mien, 
 Plunge boklK' in from Maitland beach 
 I'he far-off, facinc^ bank to reach, 
 y\.nd swore (so hoary L;ossi[)s tell) 
 He'd ride to " l^lack Rock," or to hell. 
 
 Still rolled the caldron on its way, — 
 Now into Cobequid's witle ba\'- 
 And aye the beldam mocked and mowed. 
 And o'er poor Dalton jeered and crowed, 
 And poured out, like a vengeful fate, 
 The vnak of her loni^ treasured hate. 
 Now skirting by the Masstow n swamp, 
 Moore heard, through night-fogs dun and damp, 
 Tolling its own unearthl)- knell, 
 The razed French chapel's ponderous bcll,'^ 
 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 througli rotting timbers glaring, 
 And heard within the boisterous revels, 
 As 'twere a feast of unchained dev.Ls, — 
 The ghastly crew going through again 
 Carousals off the Spanish Main. 
 
98 THE FEAyr OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 On land ai^ain., lo Dalton Aloore ! 
 Ikit cramped, bewildered, stiff, and sore. 
 The witch him by the foretop led : 
 She shook a bridle o'er his head, 
 With toothless grin and muttered curse, 
 And— presto ! Dalton 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 Dp^-i' hath need. 
 
 " Here we go ! So merry, so merry ! 
 
 Up and down, through Londonderry! 
 My hour of doom 
 Will soon have come ; 
 But this night power :s given to me ; 
 My hour of doom 
 Is not yet -ome — 
 One night for vengeaiice and for glee ! " 
 Thus warbled again the old beldam her ditty. 
 To a discordant air which by no means was pretty. — 
 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 Oiiganois and is called " Ishgonish ; " 
 But soon she diverged from this route; and the cause 
 
 why,— 
 E'en the Devil hi nself would baulk at " Slack's 
 
 Causeway." '^ 
 
 
THE LAS'l WriCU or SllUBEMACADlfi. 
 
 89 
 
 Then up Dchcrt river and clow n throir^h The Follie; — 
 Forthesteeci it wms (.Ircadful ; for the rider qui:c jolly ; 
 As the former was constantly thwacked by the latter, 
 The crutch l:eepin;^ time to the hoofs rapid clatter, 
 Whilst the 'kerchief and hair of the wicch streuncd 
 
 behind, 
 As the pace of her courser outspeeded the wind. 
 Then away to Great Villat^e, 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-bear iniif tour. — 
 
 Jkit 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 ; 
 Threw up the noiseless window sash, 
 Or passed through key-hole like a flash ; 
 To wreak her vengeance-breathing sin 
 Upon the sleeping heads within ? 
 
 What terrific dreaming! 
 
 What children were screaming ! 
 To say nothing of volleys of loudest blaspheming. 
 
 What coughs and what sneezes! 
 
 What pains and diseases! 
 As the witch her poor victims so variously teases 
 
 The cats miaule with madness ; 
 
 The dogs howl in sadness ; 
 
90 
 
 'Jill. JI.AS'I' OF SAINT ANM:, 
 
 All the milk in all dairies h;is turned into whey ; 
 From each sty, fold, and stable, 
 There uprises a babel 
 Of woes inarticulate, wordless dismay. 
 When the morninj^ their hag-haunted owners had 
 
 stirred, 
 A pest there was rnpjing throu^^h flock and through 
 
 herd ; 
 The dykes tlu)- were br( ken ; the mar.shes were 
 
 flooded ; 
 The fields of their fences were near half denuded : 
 The country side never such havoc did ken 
 Since the j'car of the gale, — eighteen hundred and 
 
 ten. 
 
 The witch is b}' the shore agai 
 
 n 
 
 Her stectl is loosed from bit and rein ; 
 
 Again that steed is Dalton Moore, 
 
 But panting", foaming, bruised, and sore. 
 
 Th 
 
 e iron vessel, too, encha 
 
 nted, 
 
 Was there — just in the place where wanted. 
 The hag plumped Dalton in ; — away ! — 
 Again on Cobecjuid's wide bay! 
 Aw-ay now to the Southern horse ! — 
 Again she metamorphosed Moore : 
 From Burncoat Head the hag he carried, 
 Who all the sleeping country harried, 
 By Noel Bay, to Salter's Head ; — 
 Nor here her task infernal staid. 
 
THE LAST WITCH OF SHUlUiNACADlE. 
 
 9' 
 
 Again the hellish craft is waiting : 
 
 They now, the rising floud-tide taking, 
 
 With speed anew when back from sea, 
 
 Wind up the Shubcnacadie. 
 
 Hut how recount what woes attended 
 
 That homeward tri}) ? Wliat vessels stranded ; 
 
 What cables broken, anchors lost ; 
 
 What boats c.'i{)sized 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 I 
 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 spell 
 
 She threw 'round all her hated neighbours ; 
 
 Whilst ever to her hellish labours 
 
 Must hapless Dalton lend a hand, 
 
 Obedient to lier weird crutch-wand ; 
 
 Until man, beast, and bird, whctlier sleeping, or 
 
 w 
 
 akin 
 
 .^» 
 
 All felt that the Devil his pastime was takmj 
 
 But, list! a cock crows, — jf morn's hercdds the 
 first :— 
 Ther'j's a crash — sure the De\il his boiler has burst 
 
^, 
 
 
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 1.6 
 
 Photographic 
 
 Sciences 
 Corporation 
 
 23 WEST MAIN STREET 
 
 WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 
 
 (716) 872-4503 
 
 l\ 
 
 
 %^ 
 
 :\ 
 
 \ 
 
 N^ y^\ WrS 
 
 
92 
 
 THE lEASr Ol- SAINT ANNE. 
 
 n 
 
 There's a scream, harsh, unearthly — a brimstony 
 
 smell, — 
 And a lau^h that is very suj^f^estive of hell. — 
 
 'Tis 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 1 have told before. 
 She passed, but left a name which cannot die. 
 As last, lost Witch of Shubenacadie. 
 
 Loud peals of laughter shook our airy tent 
 When Master Frank his eldritch tale had told. 
 Although 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 — 
 To grace his essay with " a vote of thanks ; " 
 
THE LAST WITCH OF SHUBENAC ADIE. 
 
 93 
 
 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 Vernon with a smile. "All done?" 
 Long silence was the 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 muse, 
 Though unambitious was her simple theme, — 
 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 talc of young " Undine." 
 
 
r\ . 
 
 UNDINE, 
 
 A DOMESTIC TALE. 
 
 When Goddess Spring 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 splendour 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 hollowness 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 cv er, like such morn of brightest May, 
 Was young Undine's blithe coming welcomed 
 
 Where, — sloping gently Southward to the bay. 
 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. 
 
 th* 
 
 ""I 
 
 I 
 1 
 
UNDINE 95 
 
 Her presence floated, to the charmed sif^ht 
 With motion which was music to the eye, 
 
 Like noiseless splendours of auroral light 
 That nightly dance along the boreal sky; 
 
 The witchery 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. 
 
 'Twas 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 colour on her cheek 
 Foretold the words her honied lips would speak. 
 
 She fondly loved and was beloved by all 
 That breathed within — around her happy home ; 
 
 The petted pasturers answered to her call 
 
 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. 
 
 I ■ 
 
 i 
 
96 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE, 
 
 ti. 
 
 And odours 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 sunny 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. 
 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 wrestled there with rock and wave; 
 Then splintering sank beneath their crunching 
 wrath. 
 Meanwhile young Arnold, with companions brave, 
 
 I 
 
UNDIXE. 
 
 97 
 
 Sped forth their bark from out the surfs white 
 swath, 
 With hearts resolved the periled ones to save ; 
 
 And dauntlcssly they dared the tempest's path ; 
 Dashed back — again they strove — and yet again ; 
 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, 
 
 Which lightly, as some birdling's downy nest, 
 Did o'er the seething billows shorewards ride. 
 
 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, 
 As tiny claimant sent direct from God, — 
 
 An errant angel dropped from realms above 
 To whom they angel entertainment owed, — 
 
 A little, lowly, Heaven-directed dove, 
 Who from her ark miraculously sped 
 When all the other inmates perished. 
 
 And she — whom they, as wave-born, called Undine — 
 Grew up in beauty sweet and joyous health ; 
 
 ,-■< -.,,.. 
 
f8 
 
 Tin-: i-i:ast of saikt anxe. 
 
 \^h^ 
 
 Repaid their tender cares, as we have seen, 
 
 With beaming love — 'twas all her orphan wealth ; 
 
 And every inmost heart she glided in 
 
 By some unconscious, winning, witching stealth, 
 
 As naturally as dawn displaces night 
 
 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. 
 
 Oft, too, she loitered by the lonely strand ; 
 
 Mayhap 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 — could 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, — 
 
L'X/)/.\7:. 
 
 n 
 
 And pattering b>- his side, the fields would roam ; 
 
 Or, when tlie 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 lon^^er claim endearments as a child. 
 
 Then from her heart tliere welled a love more sweet, 
 That kindled into rapture when he smiled ; 
 
 Which felt afar the cominj^ of his feet, 
 
 And heard his voice with bosom throbbin<>: wild ; 
 
 And Arnold knew it not : who ever knows 
 
 The point of time when opes the budded rose ? 
 
 He all unconsciously h:r 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 beseemed, 
 
 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 she was all a woman now. 
 
 To sooth, to comfort, and to love alway 
 That manliest man, towards whom her bosom's glow 
 
 Leaped forth and trembled with intcnsest ray; 
 
lOO 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAI.VT AN YE. 
 
 ft 
 
 And would from that white bosom pour a bahii 
 To fill his acliing heart with sweetest calm. 
 
 But secret love aye feeds upon the heart, 
 ThouL^h j^irt in silence by a frozen zone ; 
 
 Scorns all the laboured witcheries of art, 
 
 And wills to win through magic all its own ; 
 
 Holds even cankering doubt the better part, 
 Than live to know it lives to love alone : 
 
 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 su!inic§t days all wore an as[)ect drear ; 
 Her robins and boblinks, 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. 
 
L'NDIm: 
 
 101 
 
 And soon fair-wcatlicr friends tlicir blaiulcst smile 
 
 Chilled most rcspcct.iljly to ic)- stare, 
 And found that Arnold was a man of<^uiIe; — 
 
 His pride should have a fall — 'twas rij^lit and fair. 
 He but contemned the groveling pack, the while 
 
 He strugfjjled bravely 'neath his load of care ; 
 liut still tlie wounded bosom's deepest scorn 
 Is not the j^erm w hence peace of mind is born. 
 
 Then sweet Undine, like a youn«; giantess. 
 Robed in tlie dicj^nity and li|^ht of love, 
 
 Uprose to duty, veiling her distress, 
 Her idol's an^el comforter to prove ; 
 
 To cheer, — to brij^hten Ids 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 labour rude. 
 
 And hopes half blighted, and depressing fears; 
 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, 
 
 1 1. 
 
lo: 
 
 THE I' EAST or SAiXr A,\XE. 
 
 (■! 
 
 How she had had a dream, most strati«;cl>- clear, 
 Of treasure burietl on the "Pirate Isle;" 
 
 How it did often and aLjain ajjpear — 
 Her sleepinij vision of the iirilliant pile 
 
 Of treasure, w hicli mij^dit make him Iiaj)py, ^reat, — 
 
 With proudest of the earth to hold liis state. 
 
 Much marvelled Arnold that th(; sai^e U inline 
 Should be by such untowartl fancies led ; 
 
 Jiut she importunatel)' oft .iL;ain 
 
 The tale renewed to which her ihouij^ht was wed; 
 
 She never on the " Pi'ate Isle " hail been ; 
 
 Yet sure would know the treasure site, she said : 
 
 So loni; slie pleaded, .Arnold tiious^ht 'l were best 
 
 To set her little anxious lieart at rest. 
 
 Ik'hold the twain upon the island lone 
 Tradition sa)'s was once a pirate's (\.kiw. 
 
 Straight to an isolated boulder-stone, 
 
 In grassy glade, unpausing led her ken : — 
 
 It was the very spot her dreams liad known ; 
 ]5eneatli that stone the treasure lay ; and then 
 
 Stepped Arnold forth, with lever, mattock, spade, 
 
 To lay the illusion whicii tiiose dreams had made. 
 
 Impatient in jier zeal, the gentle maid, 
 
 In restless movement, and with fluttering breath 
 
 Persistent, would put forth her feeble aid, — 
 To her soft, lily hands, most cruel scathe ; 
 
UAD/N/:. 
 
 '03 
 
 And Arnold dufr, and delved, and pryM, 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 (lea 
 
 thly I 
 
 )ale 
 
 That late Hushed cheek and eaf^a'r, hopeful brow 
 l'*roni her white lips there burst a sobbin;^- wail 
 
 Of heart-wruni,^ ant;uish, wordless, faint, and 1 
 Which told most eloquently lutw deep the bale 
 
 Her bosom felt at disap[)ointment's blow; 
 
 o\\ 
 
 Then beiulini;, tremblini:, tf^terin'r wh 
 
 ere she stood, 
 
 Mer tears uushed forth i 
 
 n one tumultuous flood. 
 
 Suri)rised and startled at this transj)ort wild, 
 He cauL;ht her in his L;ently folding arms : 
 
 "Undine! Oh, why so madly self-be^uijcd ?— 
 This stranL;est phrcnz\' fills me w ith alarms ; 
 
 Pray, think no more of this, my dearest cliild ; — 
 No new calamity our quiet harms." — 
 
 (( 
 
 No, no; 1 am not now a child," sh 
 
 e cried 
 
 And started witli new impulse from his side. 
 
 She stood erect ; all pallor now was (fone. 
 
 And deep carnation sur<4ed o'er neck and face 
 
 A .stranirc li<Tht 'neath her dewy eyelids shone, 
 Half anther, yet subdued by tenderness; 
 
 quick and sobbingly her breath was drawn 
 
 And 
 
 From parted, rosebud lips all tremulou.> 
 
 TTTb I 
 
 m 
 
 i 
 
 I M 
 
 41 
 
I04 
 
 THE FEAST OE SAINT ANNE. 
 
 \\^. 
 
 
 As from a passion which she could not speak. 
 Thoiij^h from the inward storm her young heart brake. 
 
 Then, in a moment, Arnold saw it all, — 
 The love-born secret of that inward strife ; 
 
 A thousand memories did that li<:^ht recall, — 
 
 Sweet intertwined throuL^h his and Undine's life : 
 
 That moment, too, did all his heart enthrall 
 
 To that deep love linked with the name oi 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 gra'u, 
 
 Evokes the tlame explosive, tyrannous, 
 
 Which for long years has latent slumbering lain. — 
 
 " Undine, there needs no paltering words with us," 
 He said ; — '' Come to these longing arms again : 
 
 I love — oh, how I love thee! — Wilt be mine? — 
 
 My darling wife — my ver}- own Undine } " 
 
 " Oh, Arnold ! — I am thine — forever thine ! " — 
 He strained her closely to his 'raptured breast, 
 
 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 those white arms should e'er be pressed 
 
 Forgive me, dearest ; that I did not know 
 
 This torrent frozen in my heart till now. 
 
cxnix/:. • 
 
 •05 
 
 " Fool that I was! to <^rope 'mid sordid niire, 
 With paltry cares my bosom to distress, 
 
 And dream that in the heartless world linijj's hire 
 Lay ever one true qerm of haj)piness ; 
 
 Whilst in thy silent love was all desire 
 
 Could have to liirht my blinded soul to bliss ! — 
 
 Tb.y dreams, Undine, were of proplietic love; 
 
 For here indeed I find the trcasurc-troi'd' 
 
 Thus Arnold di I a hidden treasure find, 
 
 As sweet Undine in love-tauj^ht slumber dre.imcd : 
 
 They trod life's journey with one h'jart \\w\ mind : 
 Their way a flower-strewn path the\' ever deemed ; 
 
 Love, all subduini;-, made e'en fortune kind ; 
 
 And wedded life with them was all it seemed, — 
 
 A loni^--drawn rapture, each irradiated 
 
 By that unclouded light the othev shed. 
 
 Wh 
 
 en cease 
 
 d tl 
 
 le music () 
 
 \V 
 
 auime s so 
 
 ft 
 
 \'()1CC 
 
 To d 
 
 rop its sweetness on the thirstinsj- ear, 
 
 We each and all, by simultaneous vote — 
 
 Alth 
 
 ou 
 
 ^^' 
 
 we'd met not to contest for pahns — 
 
 Decreed, and all effusively decreed, 
 Of all the day's new-blown poetic bio 
 
 oms 
 
 II< 
 
 Ai 
 
 ers was our leathered posy s fairest flower 
 mi straii^dit resolved, as least of iK^na'^e d 
 
 ue, 
 
 To crown her Princess- Victor over all. 
 
 Th 
 Of 
 
 en busy hands in haste the garland wreathed 
 
 m 
 
 any a coil of Trailing Evergreen, 
 
 H 
 
 Mmi 
 
io6 
 
 THE FEAST OF SAINT ANNE. 
 
 t-J' 
 
 With tendrils of Linncea 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 memo/y, — 
 
 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 ! 
 
 And now we separate for ways 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 to me- 
 " On you the task I strictly do enjoin. 
 That you our doings of this day record 
 With true and faithful pen ; so, hereafter, 
 We may from fading memory recall 
 How we did keep this Feast day of Saint Anne." 
 
NOTES. 
 
 NOTK I.—" The Friixt of St. Annp "— pngc 7, line 1 :— 
 
 Tilt! Anniveivnrv Feast of ^i 
 
 'uinfe Anne du Canada— tha twenty-.sixtii 
 
 day of July— as tliat, of the Tutelary Saint of the Canadian Aborig 
 is still the ;/rfi,f d,,,/ of tiie Indians. Chapel {Hlavd—i 
 Indian R. C. church erected upon it— is prettily situated 
 
 mcs. 
 
 o uiinied from the 
 
 just within the 
 
 most 8outliern Arm of Bras d'Ur Lak 
 
 Pet 
 
 0, and about seven miles from St. 
 
 crs, in the Island of Cape Bret 
 
 on, — or 
 
 lioyale," by wliicli names it w 
 
 inhabitants and by its subsequent French occupant.- 
 
 with a tract of the opposite mainland, 
 
 Oonumahghec,'' or "Isle 
 as respectively known by its aboriginal 
 
 This Chapel Island, 
 
 Re 
 
 serves 
 
 )f N 
 
 comprises one of the ''Indian 
 ova Scotia. Here— and, the author believes, here aio 
 
 lie. 
 
 throughout the Marit 
 
 of St. Anne 
 
 ime Provinces, if not tliroughout Canada— the Feast 
 
 i- still celebrated by the Indians of 
 
 re 
 
 mains of the once powerful Souriquois, or Micmac, tri 
 what of its pristine erl„t. The sports and festivit 
 
 unmixed race — what 
 
 be — with some- 
 
 occasion are usually kept uj) for a week, or ten d 
 
 ics customary on the 
 
 ays, and arc witnessed, 
 
 or ])articipated in. by large numbers of white-skinned visitors from tl 
 
 le 
 
 neighbouring settlements. 
 
 however, that the o 
 
 and often from remote dist 
 
 anccs. It is said, 
 ccasion i.«:' celebrated with much less spirit and by 
 
 or spectators, than in 
 
 a more meagre attendance, whether of devotee 
 earlier years. 
 
 n 
 
 X(,tk2.— '••.4«.// 
 
 107 
 
 m the heauleouH isle, E],aiif/uit "-page 10, line 18:— 
 
 Epayguil, or Epaijgooit "—Prince Edward Island. The me 
 
 we are told. 
 
 It lies upon the watei 
 
 ining, as 
 or " it tioats upon the water;" 
 
 anil when used to designate that beautiful islmd 
 
 as it must have 
 
 appeared from a distance, when wooded d 
 happily applicable, as the Indian names invari 
 
 own to the water's edge, was 
 
 ably 
 
 are. 
 
 N 
 
 OTK 
 
 Ranij forih the ijay, .sonorous Lanifue J'0<7 "— page l; 
 
 line 2 :— 
 
 It 
 
 is hoped that the mass of our readers will pardo 
 
 n an explanation 
 
 1 ! ! 
 
io8 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 % 
 
 which may .^till be acceptablo to a few. In ffirmcr tiinc!<, the whole 
 |)eoj)le of that aggregate of coiumuiiiticp, which are now collectively known 
 as France^ were dicfinguished and classified according to their mode of 
 ])ronouncing tlic word whic'.i in it.s modern form is Oui — "Yes." Those 
 of the >«'orth were designated " Langue d^Oil ; " those of the South, the 
 " Langue d'Oc." The latter exjtression still survives in the name of the 
 most Southern Province of France. The sedentary jiojiulation of the 
 island of Cape Breton, and esjieciuUy of its Southern section, consisti 
 mainly of i)e<ij>le of French and of Scottish Highland descent ; ami both 
 classes continue to use tiieir mother tongue iis tiie ordinary means of 
 intercommunication witii their own iiarticular comi»atriots. 
 
 XoTK 4. — " T/iis island once to If AnviUe ijacc 
 
 A sad ami loic, and lonely y race " — liiif,'e '.',4, line : — 
 The tnidifion is tliat the Due D'Anville was interred ujiun (ieorge'8 
 Island, now mainly covered by Fort Charlotte, one of the principal 
 defences of Halifax harbour. The main incidents of this most disastrous 
 expedition are familiar to every reader of American history ; although, 
 iis to details, great diserepancies exist Itctwei'n the divers accounts. The 
 Knglish accounts state that D'Anville committed suicide; but litis is 
 denied b}' tlie French. It is undisputed tliat D'Kstoiirnelle died by liis 
 own baud. Tradition — whether correctly, (m- not — still indicates that 
 part of Bedford Basin in wliich a jxirtion of tiic shaltered fleet w;is sunk. 
 There is a spot on the Western sliore of the .-anie Basin still called ''The 
 French Landing:" and it is Ijclieved that tlu; encampment was in that 
 immediate vicinity. 
 
 Note .').—" 
 
 ■Fort S(. -lohn " — \>'^'A^' •>'>, li»e I : — 
 
 Fort St. John is usually supposed to Inive been on the right, or Carlton 
 bank of the river St. .John, near its mouth, and near what is now 
 recognized as the head of tlie li.irbour of tliesame lianie. Sucli was the 
 site of the fort occupied Ijy Jj'Auinay de t'harnisc, years after the events 
 referred to in the text ; yet an expression of l>enys — a very honest but 
 not always very perspicuous writer — aft'ords proof that La Tour'a fort 
 was somewhere nearly opposite " Navy Island," on what is now called 
 the Portland shore of the harbour. 
 
iV0 77:S. 
 
 109 
 
 • Oaniiijoihlii'H till: ■' — piigo :'>ti, line U 
 
 Note ('..—'• — 
 
 '• (»iiaiij5oii(ly," — tlio [inlitm name of the river St.-fo/iii. 
 
 NoTK 7. — " /iiiie Frinii;a!'ie " — [lai^e :H, lin ; (1 : — 
 
 Tlio " B:iy of Ftnidy." There seems no ijrounil to (lt>nl)t th it tlie pre- 
 ent name " Fundy '' ori;iinated from tlie Freneh oj Port Royal and the 
 Atlantie coast — speakini? of the setthMnents of Minus, Chij;nec!o, Cohe- 
 
 qiiid, etc. 
 
 as 
 
 at the f'oihi (III h'llf — at tlie " l)i)ttoni ot the biiy. 
 
 .iieir 
 
 Eni^Iish-siieakinj; — and no/ Freneli-speakinj; — rivals cjui^ht the w.)rds 
 fond III as the name of tiie bay. 
 
 NoTK S. — ' 
 
 — Piirt III -linn " — l):i}^e 40, line 1 
 
 M 
 
 leh was tlie designation of (Jiiarhittetown, I'riuce K Iward [slaiid, 
 
 under the Freiudi dominion. 
 
 NoTK '.I. — '' .1/*/ net anuind thit. Iiaimtud spof "--paj^e .')S, line l"> : — 
 (rossi|) liiimonr st ili whispers —or (//(/ whisper, no; m my y 
 
 e irs smoe — 
 
 of the spot in Cliarlottetown where, at the midnij^ht hour, may yet 
 be heard ghostly voices uttering wonls of militiry commind, and the 
 mysterioMS sound of tiie resulting evolutions. 
 
 No."K in. 
 
 ■Port lioi/al " — page tJI, line 1 : — 
 
 It 
 
 may 
 
 be seareely necessary to say that J*orl Jio)/ai wa.s the former 
 
 name of Annapolis Royal, which hitter 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 co//^/n»o?/.s 
 European settlement ii 
 Flori<la. 
 
 1 North America, North of .St, Augustine, in 
 
 Note 11. — Ao other spot iti nil the Western world 
 
 So oft hath seen the hattle-jla;) unhirlrd, f'/c."— page 02, lines 
 
 [15 and 10 : — 
 nothing of unimportant ho.stile demonstrations and trivial 
 
 'ly 
 
 affairs in its vicinity, Fort Royal, or Annapolis Royal, has, in its time, 
 sustained no less than tivelue a.ssaults. It was taken by force five 
 times by the English: by Argal, in lOi:'. ; l)y Kirk, in 1028; by Sedg- 
 wick in 10,')t; by Phipps, in 109(1; and by Nicholson, in 1710. It wa.s 
 
 by them abandoned, or 
 
 restored to the French, four times: y)y Argal, in 
 
 101:]; by Treaty of St. (Jcrmain, in 10,32; by Treaty of Rreda, in 100 
 
no 
 
 NOTES. 
 
 and by Treaty of Ryswick, in 1697. It was unsuccessfully attacked by 
 the English thret times : by Col. Church, in 1704 ; by Col. March, in Jun« 
 1707; and by Col. Wainwright, in August, 1707. It was unsuccess- 
 fully attacked by the French and Indians twice : in July, 1744, under th« 
 direction of Abb<; de Loutru ; and in September, 1744, under Duvivier. 
 It was taken, sacked, and abandoned ticice: once by pirates, in 1690; 
 and once by U. S. Revolutionary forces, in 1781. 
 
 Note 12. — " the Baron de Saint Castine "—page 63, line 19 : — 
 
 Of the Barons de St. Castine — father and son — who fill so large a space 
 in the Canadian, Acadian, and New England history of their jieriod, 
 Rameau (in his France aux Colomea) fti'-nishesa gniphic and admirably 
 condensed account, lie says : — 
 
 '' One of their (the Abcnakis') most notable chiefs was a Bearncse 
 adventurer, the Baron de Saint Castine, — a strongly marked type of the 
 adventurer-colonists whom France was, about that time, throwing oif 
 into all parts of the world. A former cajitain of the Carignan regiment, 
 which had just been disbanded in Canada, alter the Iro(iuois war, the 
 existence of a Military Colonist in that country had doubtless api)earcd 
 to him too common-place and dull for his Bearnese temperament ; he 
 had come then, towards 1670, across the mountains ami through th^ 
 savage i)orde.«, to install himself among the rucks 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, ener- 
 getic, adroit in all bodily exercises, of an adventurous spirit, and ready 
 in resources, he became, in a little Avhile, the idol of his savage hosts. 
 His rei>utation spread through tho wilds, and he marrieil the daughterof 
 a chief. On his appeal all the tribes of Acadia and of the frontiers of 
 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 Frenchmen who had attached themselves to his jierson. 
 
 " By himself alone he retarded the English colonization of those regions 
 for fully thirty years. Every page of the chronicles of the New England 
 Puritans of that j»eriod is filled with lamentations and imprecations 
 against this daring and terrible freebooter. About 1708, he took his 
 departure for France, to receive an inheritance which had fallen to him 
 in his own country ; and he left liis fort, his band, and the ])ursuit of 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Ill 
 
 bis oxpeditions, to the oommand of the eldest of the sons (rhom he hnd 
 had by his Indian princess". 
 
 '' This son showed himself the worthy successor of his father. Down 
 to 1722, long after the taking of Port Royal by Nicholson and the con- 
 clusion of the Trenty of Utrecht, we find him courageously striving 
 against the English. Cantoned in the basin of the Penobscot and the 
 Kennebec, where he had brought the Abenakis together, he firmly held 
 and pushed his positions into the English Colonies, according to tlio 
 paternal traditions ; but, whether lacking the skill or the audacious 
 good luck of his father; or whether the English, once masters of Acadia, 
 became afterwards too strong for him ; they finished by surrounding him 
 and taking him prisoner. Being so fortunate as to escape being put to 
 death, he was either released by the English in Kuropo, or ho made his 
 escape ; but he regained France, and arrived in time at Beam, to inhe- 
 rit, in his turn, the succession which old Saint Castino, his father, had 
 inherited, and which liis decease had just now re-opened. This position 
 could not, however, give stability to the vagabond disposition of this 
 worthy son of an adventurous race; for, in IT'il, wc find him again with 
 the Abenakis on the frontiers of Acadia ; and it would not be astonishing 
 if his descendants, or those of some of his brothers, had perpetuated the 
 Basque line of the Barons of Saint Castine among the wrecks of their 
 adoptive tribe." 
 
 The elder Baron do St. Castino married a daughter of Madnckawamlo, 
 or Matekwando, an Abenaqui chief, and had by her several childriMi be 
 sides the son who succeeded to his title. That son — Baron Anselm — was 
 married, at Port Royal, on the 31st October, 1707, to Charlotte D' Amours, 
 daughter of Louis D'Araours, Sieur de Chautfours, — one of the several 
 brothers D' Amours, who held, under the French crown, extensive posses- 
 sions on the St. John river and elsewhere in Acadia, tind took a promin- 
 ent part in the events among which they lived. Young Saint Castine's 
 signature to the registration of liis marriage (wiiich is to be seen in the 
 Nova Scotian Archives) is a wry gentlemnnhj autograph, indicating his 
 ability to handle the pen as freely as tl.o sword or tomahawk. 
 
 Note 13. — " Where Dauphin river, opening to the port" — page 63, 
 
 [line 24:— 
 The Aboriginal name of what is now called Annapolis riccr was 
 
i I. 
 
 NO'J'Ea. 
 
 n. 
 
 Towaiifjucof. \W the I'Vciieli. on flioir first arriv.il in tlic country, it was 
 eitlh'il l/Kqiiillr, wliicii naino wan very scion iifterwards ciiangcfl tor 
 
 NoTK 14. — " Sotni Diencouroillc'it Imr ixlr 
 
 " — Iia;,'f C\, line IS : — 
 
 What is now known as "(Joat Island" is named fliencourville in 
 Lescari)ot's nnip (1600) aeeoniiianyinghis Ifixtoirr (fe la Xouvelle Frunc 
 — liMvinj; l)et'n so named, of course, for Biencoiirt, the son of Sieur do 
 l*out rincoiirt, founder of Port Royal. 
 
 Note 1.3. — '' T/w tiile i>J L'OriijU'il " — pai^e ()4, line 21 : — 
 Known now hy its Knglisli synonym of "Moose River." 
 
 NoTK Iti. — '• Surpris(({ inid fi/unmul, t/n'ir lUKiniicd Knylishfoc 
 
 Are viniquinhed e'er they scarce con strike n blow " — paj^o 
 
 (75, lines It and 15 : — 
 " Many of those at a distance [from Port Royal] iiad not yielded to tiio 
 Englisli (in eontnrniity with the terms of the eajiitulation of Suberease, 
 on the L'nd of Oeloljer of the preceding year — 1710), and Captain Pigeon, 
 an olfieer of tlie regulars, was sent up the river with a strong detachment 
 to reduce them to subjection, and procure timber for the repairs of tho 
 fort. While in the i)erformanee of this duty they were surpri.sod by a 
 great body of Indians, who killed the Fort Major, the Engineer, and all 
 the boat'.s crew, and took between lit) and 40 prisoners. Tiie scene of this 
 disaster is situated about 12 miles above the fort, on the road to Halifax, 
 and is still called JJloodi/ Creek." — Ilaliburton's Nova )Sco(i<t, vol. /., 
 paffe 91. 
 Note 17.— " I'/ian bi/ the banks of Shubenacudic " — page 81, line 27 : — 
 
 The early .settlers aUtng the Shubenacadie and its vicinity were prob- 
 ably not more sujterstitious than their neighbours and contemporaries in 
 many other parts of Nova Scotia. It has happened, however, that owing 
 in part to tlie daring, even to the verge of recklessness, which was a 
 characteristic of the people ; in part to the prevalent dangerous occupa- 
 tions of nniny of them in connection with the extensive gypsum quarries 
 of the vicinity, and in the extremely perilous navigation of a river and 
 bay whose tides exceed in rapidity and maximum height those found 
 anywhere else in the world, sudden and violent deaths were, in former 
 times, almost astoundingly frequent. The effect of this upon the minds 
 
A\>V7:S. 
 
 "3 
 
 )l tlie •.iiile iiikI, i'«r llio mo^i 
 
 |niit, illiiiMiUo foiTtntluT.-i may 1)0 iMisily 
 
 si»)lv 
 
 uonceired. Muny spot:- wen- •' liiimitfil " by ghostly vi-*itiir.t.-',~|) 
 are .<o still ; untl tiie weinlly U-«cmls of tin- c.Mintry ^hW w.to nninorous 
 ami ."tiirtliii)?. As for witches, — miiiiy ptTsuns still liviii),' cim romcmlwr 
 the lineaments ol certain elderly dames wlm Ix.re tin- dungernus reputii- 
 tioii of being adepts in the Black Art, and td whuse monstrous achieve- 
 
 m 
 
 ent."- — some of them qui 
 
 te as objectionable as any attributed to I'eggy 
 
 Hoan — many tales were told and believed. 
 
 Note is.—" T/if razed Frenc/i C/i<ij»rK f„,n /» /v.h.s /yr// "— page 87, line 
 
 [1.'-.:- 
 
 tionofwhat is now the township id' London- 
 
 In the must Kaslorn sec 
 
 derry, Colchester county, the French population id' Oobeciuid, previou- 
 to the (Jeneral E-xpulsion in \7in> 
 
 had a church of the dimensions o 
 
 Ision 
 
 foot by 40 feet — probably the largest in Acadia ; atl' 
 village formed by their successors an 
 called " Masstown." This church issai 
 
 f 100 
 
 I from this fact the 
 
 )unil its site has ever since been 
 il to have hail a large and fine bell 
 which, it has been supposed, the French, at the time of their expulsion, 
 had burieil surreiJtitiou.sly in a neighbouring morass. The early Knglish- 
 :3ijeaking settlers made many and fruitless searches for this beU 
 
 Note 19.—" J'J'fn (he Devil himself would baulk at Slack's Causeway " 
 
 [page 88, line 2S : — 
 
 ,, To the unlearned in the to]iograidiy alluded to in this witch-ride, it 
 
 may be mentioned that, in 
 
 former times, " Slack's Causeway ' designated 
 
 a vile and much dreaded section of the high road between Truro and 
 Londonderry which was the scene of • 'ny mishaps,— ludicrous, vexa- 
 tious, disastrous, and even tragical. 
 
 ^i 
 
 , t 
 

 i 
 
 JkiN 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
m 
 
li 
 
 Till-: FORICST. 
 
 On, the l^'orcst forever! the J-'orest for me ! 
 I would dwell in tiie T'orest, so pathless and free, 
 
 Afar from the haunts of the spoiler, Man ; 
 Where Freedom, in primeval pride, 
 Roams ever with <^iL(antic stride, — 
 
 i\s ever since the World beiran ; 
 Where flows in its triuniph the fetterless river, — 
 Unstaying, resistless, onward forever, 
 
 Like the march of Time throuj^h Eternity; 
 And the thousand-fold hills from their splendours of 
 
 green 
 
 Shake the undulous light, like the gloom and the sheen 
 On the mountain waves of a frozen sea. 
 
 Oh, the I'^orest forever; the forest forever! 
 When Morning comes, like a silent river, 
 
 From the gush of her orient, ;olden fountain ; 
 And a million leaflets flutter and dance 
 With joy, o'er the wide and living expanse, 
 
 As her smile breaks forth on the blushing moun- 
 tain. 
 The music that heralds her triumphal march. 
 
Its 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 
 
 ^ 
 
 As she calmly treads 'neath the towering arch 
 
 Of bovvers 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 dreamless sleep,- 
 Not like frail mortals, to pine and weep, 
 
 But smiling in beauty, and freshness, and love 
 As first she woke when, ages gone. 
 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 le,/-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 blossom. 
 
 As she sees her loved image reflected there. 
 Save where his fitful song of love 
 The wren pours forth from green alcove, 
 
 No whisper breaks the sweltry air. 
 Rests everywhere a holy spell, — 
 On glimmering glade, and shady dell ; 
 
 The host which God alone can number, 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 119 
 
 Save for their own breath's odorous kiss 
 By each other fanned, are motionless, 
 
 And seem tc toy with wooing slumber. 
 
 Oh, the Forest dark, how grand its ^ioom ! 
 When over all Night's sable plume 
 
 Droops heavily and silently. 
 When darkness upon darkness mass'd 
 O'erarch one cavern, — column'd, vast, 
 
 Outstretching to infinity ; 
 Where naught relieves the luie of ni'-ht 
 Save where a wandering moonbeam's lioht 
 
 Throws on the ground a watchfire's elare 
 Or, stealing down some dead tree's corse, 
 Upraises grim a snow-white torse 
 
 Outchiseled from the darksome air ; — 
 When the aspen whispering on the hill, 
 And the far-off 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 
 Sweetly upward from Mother Earth's mammary 
 founts. 
 When over the world the Year's Morning beams 
 
 
rt ^"'' 
 
 120 
 
 M ISC ELLA XEOUS POEMS, 
 
 And its countless pulsations, soft murmuring, 
 Make music such as the antrels sincr 
 
 To childhood when smiling in innocent dreams. 
 Then, with placid life exuberant, 
 Each wakened spray grows radiant 
 
 In smiles of happy-tinted flowers, 
 And breathes upon the passing airs, 
 In odours sweet, its silent prayers 
 
 To Him who sends the sun and showers ; 
 And birds, in rainbow-coloured hosts, 
 Once more returned from far-off coasts, 
 
 In love's delight forget to roam ; 
 Whilst flutteriii!j round their native li ;unt. 
 With trancjuil ecstasy they chaunt, 
 
 In clu)rus sweet their " Home, sweet home." 
 
 The ^\)rest — oh, gorgeous its myriad dyes, 
 W^hen Autumn the rainbow has plucked from the skic; 
 
 And scattered it wide o'er the leafy pavilion, 
 Till the radiant hills are flooded in sjlorv, 
 Ever ciiringing — verdant, hoary, 
 
 Russet, golden, and vermilion. 
 O'er all there floats an amber mist. 
 As if the very light that kiss'd 
 
 Tlie wildwood caught its mingled ray; 
 The while the listening air hears tell 
 Each whispering leaf its last farewell 
 
 As down it floats from parent spray. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 in 
 
 The air but seems ethereal balm, 
 That laps the soul in dreamy calm 
 
 Where solemn thoughts with joy are blended ; 
 We cannot feel that Death is there ; 
 But, sweetly smiling, Nature fair 
 
 Sinks to her rest, a gala ended. 
 
 The Forest wild ! I love it still, 
 When Winter, earth, and lake, and rill. 
 
 Has bound in adamantine chain; 
 When every spray is crystal'd o'er 
 With gems of ice— transparent, hoar— 
 
 By silver thaw, or freezincr rain : 
 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, 
 Sweep the lorn hills with circlin<r roar 
 
 , Till the wild woods wave like a storm-lashed sea; 
 Whilst the swaying pines toss their arms aghast. 
 And wrestle amain with the whirling blast, 
 And moan in their fitful agony. 
 
 Oh, the Forest forever ! the Forest for aye! 
 In the Forest Fd live; in the Forest, die: 
 
 I 
 
122 
 
 M ISC ELLA NE O US POEMS 
 
 ' 1 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 , 
 
 ■ 
 
 ; \{ 
 
 
 I'd wend to its coverts lone and deep, 
 And there by the soothing breezes fann'd, 
 As they swept through the pines and maples grand, 
 
 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 fluttering canopy ; 
 The while no sadder requiem 
 Than the wood-thrush's moi n, or evening hymn, 
 
 May float above me where I He. 
 
MY SHANTY IX THE WOOD. 
 
 Away, away, to the wildwood's shade, — 
 
 From cankering care and wearing toil ; 
 Away, away, from tiie clang of trade, 
 
 From the heedless crowd, and the town's turmoil, 
 I hie to my own sweet, lonely dell, 
 
 I^'ar, far away from the worldling brood, — 
 To thy lowly roof that I love so well, 
 
 My own dear Shanty in the Wood. 
 
 No bubble fashion mocks me there 
 
 With clianging iridescent glow ; 
 Nor wealth displays its vaunted glare, 
 
 To tantalize with fleeting show; 
 But there's the pomp of wildwoods grand. 
 
 There, Nature in her kindest mood, 
 With beauties from a generous hand 
 
 Has wrapped my Shanty in the Wood. 
 
 No skillful pencil may 1 need, 
 
 To deck with costly art m\' walls ; 
 
 Nor tone of pipe, or string, or reed, 
 
 Reverberant throuidi sounding halls : 
 
 For there the soul with beauty thrills, 
 
 Although those piny walls are rude,- 
 
124 
 
 M ISC EL I. A NE O US POEMS. 
 
 Such glories from the pictured hills 
 
 Surround my Shanty in the Wood ; 
 
 And from a thousand warblinLj throats, 
 
 Attuned to love's delicious spell, 
 The very soul of music floats 
 
 Adown each odour-wafting dell ; 
 Anon the deep yEolian lyre, 
 
 In chorus with the murmuring flood, 
 Sweeps fitfully, a hymning choir, 
 
 Around my Shanty in the Wood. 
 
 There spreads the myriad-leaved tome. 
 
 That teaches best what man can learn : 
 
 Tranquillity there finds a home, 
 
 Afar from jealousies that burn ; 
 
 And though, removed from Luxury's haunt, 
 Its board is spread with simplest food, 
 
 I deem the scowls of sullen Want 
 
 Will shun my Shanty in the Wood. 
 
 Then come, my Love, and wave behind 
 
 The envious glance, the slanderer's tongue : 
 In these fond arms protection find 
 
 I'^rom crouching guile and bolder wrong ; 
 And I, in th}' love-lighted eyes, 
 
 Shall find all else there needs of good, 
 To make an earthly paradise 
 
 Of my sweet Shant)- in the Wood. 
 
 
BE OUR EMBLEM THE LILY. 
 
 [Divers suggestions have l)een made as to an emblem for the Domi- 
 nion of Canada. Why not the lovely White Water-lily (^Nymphcea 
 Oiioraia), so widely and generally abundant within the Canadian 
 borders, and one of the hardiest, most beautiful, and sweetest flowers 
 that blooms ?J 
 
 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 clearest,* 
 Yet appalled by no tempest, nor blighted by rime' 
 Then hurra for the Lilies ! 
 The Lilies of Canada ! 
 
 That Lily's sweet odour waf:s o'er our Dominion, 
 
 From Columbia's deep valleys to bleak Labrador; 
 From the bourne where Our Future shall wave lier 
 broad pinion. 
 To lake, stream, and tarn by the dim Arctic shore. 
 Then hurra for the Lilies, etc. 
 
 As she dances afloat on the soft-rippling waters, 
 And unbosoms her charms to the light from above, 
 
 * The Lily, whilst expaiKling its snowy petals x.., the fullest extent under the 
 bright sunshine, folds them rlosely t02;ether during the night. It even remains 
 closed, or partially so, during the <lay time when the sky is (.leeply overcast. 
 
126 
 
 MISCEI.I AXr.Ol S /'OEMS. 
 
 May slic emblem the beauty and f]^race of our daup"h- 
 ters, 
 
 And tlieir purit\- stainless to '^lances of love. 
 
 Then hurra ft)r the Lilies, etc. 
 
 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, etc. 
 
 When our Land of the Future is halo'd with glory, 
 And her children with might and with honour are 
 bless'd, 
 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, etc. 
 
 Then let us with Lilies our banner emblazon, — 
 The sweet-breathing Lily with bosom of snow ; 
 
 And be ours the country wherever we gaze on 
 The waters adorned where our own Lilies grow. 
 Then hurra for the Lilies, etc. 
 
 I in 
 
 11 If 
 
hurra: hurra: for norland: 
 
 [It may be as well to explain tlial llu- following " Song fur the 
 Times'' — repu})lished from the Halifax British C''A'///.i7 newspaper of 
 the (late appended— was written at a time when the British North 
 American Provinces — now the Nonunion of Canada — were evidently o^ 
 the eve of being invaded at various points, by formidable bodies of 
 "Fenians," organized, armed, and drilled in the United States. It 
 was also written under the apprehension that those Provinces, the 
 union of which was then about being consummated, would collectively 
 be named "Norland." The stanzas were set to music which was 
 adopted as the March oftne nth Kegt. i)f Halifax County Militia, 
 which battalion the author had the honour, at the time, to command.] 
 
 Men of Norland, dnuv the sword, 
 
 Set your households all in order ; 
 See, there comes a rabble horde — 
 
 A storni-cloud darkens on our border. 
 Corne, man your i^uns, true Norland sons 
 
 Of sires famed in battle story ; 
 Strike home, strike home ; a time has come 
 
 To fight for freedom and for glory. 
 Chorus. 
 True Norland men, we're staunch and steady. 
 
 Hurra: hurra' for Norland ! 
 Let foemen come : they'll find us ready. 
 Hurra ! hurra ! for Norland ! 
 
i-\ 
 
 138 
 
 A//6 CEI. I. A JVyWi'S POEMS. 
 
 From Lake St. Clair to Newfoundland, 
 
 Hark ! the bugle sounds " Assemble ;" 
 Up! defend your native land, 
 
 lie wov you the men to tremble. 
 Recall the fi^ht on Queeuston Height ; 
 
 Remember Stadacona foreland ; 
 The glorious fray at Chateauguay, 
 
 In the bloody, brave old days of Norland. 
 
 Chorus. True Norland men, etc. 
 
 !1 '1^ 
 
 On Erie and Ontario's shore, 
 
 'Midst Niagara's* ceaseless thunder, 
 Where broad St. Lawrence rapids roar, 
 
 Meet greeting give these birds of {)Iunder. 
 Meet them beside the St. Croix tide, 
 
 By Dosky banks of Ouangondy, 
 Acadia's strand, in Rupert's Land, 
 
 Or on the foaming waves of I'undy. 
 
 Chorus. True Norland men, etc. 
 
 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. 
 
 * NotwUhslaiidiiii; recent custom In the cnntraiy, trailitionnl pronunciation 
 and euphony alike demand tliat Niagara should he accented on tlie penultimate 
 syllable, as it necessarily must he in the text. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 No bandits vile shall e'er defile 
 The freedom-sacred soil o{ our land ; 
 
 Then, foenien, 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 axd Norland. 
 TMarch 26, 1866. 
 
 »9 
 

 S[: 
 
 ■ : 
 
 H '1*1^' ' 
 
 TO Till-: VVOUUTIIRUSII. 
 
 Tin' song, dear bird of solitude, — 
 Most musical that charms our wood, — 
 Its sweetness trilling, 
 I^'rom full lieart swelling, — 
 How sootliing to the heart in saddest mood ! 
 
 At dawn, remote from twittering throng, 
 So lovingly thy notes prolong 
 
 Their greeting benison, 
 
 In cadenced chanson, 
 It seems that light of morning breathes in song. 
 
 At eve, from tallest piny spire, 
 
 Still bathed in beams of westering ue, 
 
 Thy fitful chanting. 
 
 In notes enchanting, 
 Wells forth like melody from heaven-strung lyre. 
 
 )9i 
 
 Now riplingly the warblings flow 
 Thy whole rich diapason through ; 
 
 Then upwards tinkling, 
 
 Like silver clinking, 
 Thy vocal bell announces changes new. 
 
A//.s(7././..i.v/A>rs Pi)/:.]/s. 
 
 All tIli^^tii;^ for tli)- music-rain, 
 We drink the all too tilful strain, 
 
 ICacli transient cndiiiL; 
 
 Our rapt cars Ijciulinj^^ 
 To licar that silver)- voice mount up a■^^-l^n. 
 
 Vet ever seems th>' son^^ to know 
 The thrill ofiialf-for^otten woe, — 
 
 A plaintive L^dadness, 
 
 Or jo)-ous sadne.^s : — 
 Tile very poet of the woods art thou ; 
 
 And sit'st alone most near tiie skies, 
 Apart from <^3.zc of earth !>• eyes. 
 
 In self-communiiiL;, 
 
 Yet often tuninLr 
 Th)- 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 jo}-s rewaken 
 In sweet heart-gushings exquisite as thine. 
 
 131 
 
w 
 
 ■ 
 
 
 GOLD-MINERS' SONG. 
 
 !lf> 
 
 Air : 7^u// aioay cheerily. 
 
 Ho, ho! for the clamour 
 
 Of stamp, drill, and hammer ! 
 
 Come, join in the chorus, all, stalwart and bold, 
 Swini;" 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'rom the dark caverns under ! — 
 
 Aha ! 'tis a music to gladden our hearts. 
 Again — deeper, louder — 
 How the rock-rending powder 
 
 Upheaves from earth's bosom the gold-laden 
 quartz ! 
 
 Chorus : Then, ho for the clamour, etc. 
 
 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 Kadle ; 
 
 Let us see if Fortune cheers us with a favouring 
 "sight." 
 Chorus: Then, ho for the clamour, etc. 
 
MISCE L LANE O US POEMS. 
 
 133 
 
 Hurra ! here's no deceiviiiGf ; 
 For "seeing is believing," 
 
 And seeing we laugh at the proverb so old : 
 No doubt mars our pleasure 
 When we find the real treasure; 
 
 For Gold, although glittering, is eer known as Gold. 
 Chorus : Then, ho for the clamour, etc. 
 
 Next, the pebbled rock scatter we 
 In the huge iron battery, 
 
 Where the steelshodden stami)ers make thun- 
 dering din. 
 The amalgam so precious — 
 To the eye how delicious ! 
 
 For the furnace each granule, oh carefully win ! 
 Chorus; Then, ho for the clamour, etc. 
 
 Now, the ingot is fashioned, 
 What new thought impassioned 
 
 Lights our vision through vistas of hours to come } 
 The remembrance, bejjr.ilinir 
 Our cares and our toiling, 
 
 Of our parents, children, wives, and our sweet- 
 hearts at home. 
 Chorus : Then, ho for the clamour, etc. 
 
 ^1 
 
 11! 
 
 
^i^ 
 
 
 I; 
 hi ie'~ 
 
 I'M 
 
 i'- 
 
 I WOULD DWELL BY THE SHORE. 
 
 I Would dwell by the sliorc of the sounding sea 
 For there I ever breathe more free. 
 And a rapturous joy my bosom thrills 
 When I seaward gaze from the lifeless hills. 
 I can never the sense ',( solitude know 
 Where the tidal surges come and go ; 
 And I feel a companionshi[) dear to nie 
 In the liviuLT waves of the restless sea. 
 
 Those weaves now bound to the waiting strand. 
 
 With outstretched arms and murmurings bland, 
 
 Or playfully leai) in the face of the sky 
 
 To tumble in boisterous revelry ; 
 
 And now in mountain ranks they come, 
 
 On tempest march, with crests of foam ; 
 
 But moving ever to melody 
 
 Are the restl ss waves of the sound inL*" sea. 
 
 The gloom of the sombre forest hills 
 With a loneliness the bosom chills; 
 And dirge-like sound the solemn winds, 
 As they sweep the lyre of moaning pines 
 J^ut grandly joyous the eternal roar 
 Of billows dancing to the shore: 
 
MISCELLAXEOi'S POEMS. 
 
 It mocks the thunder's fitful crlee — 
 That surging din of the breaking sea. 
 
 The ocean prairie, rolling wide, 
 
 Is gorgeous in its Summer pride, 
 
 And, from its bloom of myriad dyes 
 
 Wafts dulcet incense tntiie skies; 
 
 But brighter far than prairie bloom 
 
 Is the sparkling wave, with wreaths of foam ; 
 
 And sweeter than garden breath to me 
 
 Is the bracing gale from the briny sea. 
 
 There's beauty where the wintlino- river 
 
 Its mighty flood rolls on forever ; 
 
 A charm in thunderous waterfalls 
 
 Delights the eye if: yet appeals : 
 
 More beautifully grand the sight 
 
 When the billows rise in their splendid mi'dit - 
 
 Their awful, mat! immcnsit\-, 
 
 When they leap in wrath from the frantic sea. 
 
 Let others joy in the bounteous plain, 
 With its smiling fields and its golden grain ; 
 Let others in tuneful idyls tell 
 Of the flowering vaL,' and the bosky dell ; 
 But I never can dwell in the joy,-, of hoinc 
 Afar from the view of the briny foam : 
 Oh, there is the home most dear to me; 
 And I pine for the shore of the glorious sea. 
 
 ^5 
 

 
 II •■■■I 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 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 arc all a-tremble 
 To their own love whisperings; 
 
 Joyous fire-flies bright assemble, 
 
 Borne on their love-liij-hted wings : — 
 Lovelv evening woos to love. 
 
 Odours from a thousand flowers 
 
 Breathe their trancing sweets around, 
 
 Mingling with the unseen showers 
 
 Which bedew the jewelled ground : — 
 Sweetest evening woos to love. 
 
 All of earth, and air, and ocean, 
 Rest in love's voluptuous spell, 
 
 Silent with that deep emotion 
 Utterance can never tell : — 
 Silent evening woos to love. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Dearest, sweetest, loveliest blossom 
 Blooming 'neath the sky of night, 
 
 Take me to thy pearly bosom, 
 Throbbing with intense delight,— 
 'Passioned throbbings wooing love. 
 
 There, oh, fondly, happy-sighing, 
 Clasp me warmly to thy breast; 
 
 Whilst I kiss thee, fainting, dying,' 
 Ever closer—closer pressed, 
 In delirium of love. 
 
 m 
 
 ^ ll 
 
 K 
 
I 
 
 i^ 
 
 EVER TO THEE. 
 
 Ever to thee my fond heart yearneth, 
 
 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: 
 hither unto me — 
 
 Ever to me : ever to me." 
 
 « 
 
 come 
 
 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 spirit follows after to recall me back to thee — 
 Ever to thee ; ever to thee. 
 
 1) 
 
 '.J.1 
 
»39 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Dearest, oh, be to me, then, ever, 
 As now, my hTe, my soul of joy; 
 
 Let doubt's disturbing tremors never 
 
 Thy golden confidence alloy.— 
 Then hither to my arms and tky yearning let it be,- 
 Ever to me ; ever to me ! 
 

 EXPATRIATED. 
 
 Farewell ! — my Native Land, farewell !— 
 
 Yes ; I must seek a foreign shore : 
 These parting accents are the knell 
 
 Of hopes now dead for evermore. — 
 As, gazing on a woman fair, 
 And marking every feature there 
 The model of ripe loveliness, 
 A child, with yearning tenderness, 
 
 Who claims that form a Mother's, 
 Sees that to him her breast is snow ; — 
 For him no love illumes that brow ; 
 The pride of her own beauty born. 
 Is met with unconcern, or scorn ; 
 
 Her smiles are all for others ; — 
 Thus ever my adoring eyes 
 
 Have dwelt on thee, fair Mother Land ; 
 Thus now I feel thy loveless guise, — 
 
 The wave repellant of thy hand. 
 
 Thy glory, fame, prosperity, 
 
 Have ever been most dear to me — 
 
 Nay, they have been my very own. 
 I've striven, toiled — yea, wept and prayed. 
 
^ MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 That Heaven thy young career might aid, 
 And glorify thy mountant throne. 
 
 And what though weak my efforts proved ? 
 
 The travail Jen 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 sta*-, 
 
 Though dim, on thy grand coronal. 
 I would not pass the stranger's gate ; 
 Nor crave I glory— covet state, 
 
 That must be won in other lands, 
 Towards thee my holiest thoughts have sprung ; 
 In thee I've lived, to thee have clung. 
 
 Nor guerdon prized from foreign hands. 
 
 Alas ! 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 labourer's wage,— 
 The sordid pangs of want t' assuage, 
 
 141 
 
is 
 
 n- 
 
 142 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, 
 
 Now must I leave thy frowning shore.- 
 
 For thee I g' dly would have died ; — 
 
 E'en this last solace is denied. — 
 Farewell, farewell, for evermore ! 
 
 5« 
 
UNA. 
 
 Through the wail of dead years' dirges. 
 O'er the ghastly-crestcd surges 
 Of the dark and troubled waters of the melancholy 
 past, 
 
 Ever memory is turning, 
 
 With a sweet and saddened yearning, 
 
 To a far and golden, morning isle, ere ye7 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, 
 
 Seems that distant, sunny region of the morning time 
 of life. 
 
 As around me shadows gather, 
 And I'm driven fait and farther, 
 Surging onward, wending tomb-ward, o'er the world- 
 ling waves of strife. 
 Still and ever doth remembrance 
 Revive the hope that Pleav'n must be, to shadow 
 thus Heaven's semblance. 
 
I 
 
 ^. 
 
 144 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS J'OEMS. 
 
 Floating through that visioncd morning, 
 
 E'en its happy h'ght adorning, 
 Lo, a sweet and gentle spirit in a form of maiden fair ; 
 
 With a melody of motion. 
 
 Ever, to my tranced notion, 
 Bearing sweetness where she listeth, like an odour- 
 laden air, — 
 
 Melting in celestial raptur 
 The heart her love enfolds in unpremeditated capture- 
 
 Is she woman, or an angel, 
 
 Who, with voice of an evangel. 
 Breathes music of sweet comfort to the sorrow-laden 
 breast ? 
 
 Towards whom the wildest passion 
 
 Ever victor Love could fashion 
 Is chastened by her pureness to a sweet and holy zest ; 
 
 And the phrenzy of emotion, 
 Reflected from her heart, becomes a heavenly devo- 
 tion ? 
 
 Now, behold her light step coming, 
 
 Like the spirit of the gloaming, 
 Her eyes' sweet light that beameth love like yonder 
 evening star; — 
 
 Coming, by the river margin, 
 
 Where the Spring's first flowers burgeon. 
 To trysting place, by placid pool, below the crimson 
 
 scaur. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 
 
 Where the stream its noisy fleetne 
 Is stayin^r, hnsliin^tr,_a, ^o list he 
 sweetness. 
 
 CSS 
 
 I* voice's silvery 
 
 Now m decked and scented bower,- 
 Sweetest bud of fairest flower — 
 
 Now in cot, or hall, or chamber, or'amid the thron.s 
 of men, ^ 
 
 To my memory it seemeth, 
 That sweet presence ever beameth 
 Upon my raptured soul, which drinks the li^dit yet 
 thirsts afrain : "" 
 
 Ever with aie is that presence, 
 
 I" form, or spirit, charming life with asadden'd an.el 
 plcasancc. 
 
 Banished every care and sorrow, 
 
 Dreaming glories of each morrovv 
 I revel in the blisses of the sweetly certain No.. 
 
 Even pain, the sense that wringeth, . 
 
 Charmed compensation brino-eth • 
 So healing thrill her tender words^ her hand upon ,ny 
 brow; — ^ 
 
 Fondly, fondly memory lingers 
 
 O'er the gentle touch mesmeric of those slenderest of 
 fingers ! 
 
 Clouds my morning vision darken- 
 Black and ominous— and hearken ! 
 
146 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Their cavcrn'd depths roll out the thunder-notes of 
 coming doom. — 
 Days all happy sunshine marring ! — 
 Agony of ceaseless warring 
 With the dark, relentless destiny that sideth with 
 the tomb ! — 
 Rent a bleeding heart asunder, — 
 The better part engulphed for aye death's bitter 
 waters under! — 
 
 I, 
 
 „ I 
 
 Are we parted then forever ? 
 
 Angel UNA, shall I never 
 Again drink in the tender smile that bathed thy 
 love-lit eyes ? 
 
 Was the love each other given, -- 
 
 Pure as 't were a loan from Heaven, — 
 In thee extinguished in tlylast earthly agonies ? 
 
 When thou passed'st Death's dark portals. 
 Was thy light of life eclipsed by glory of th' immortals ? 
 
 Is this why I vainly waited, 
 When by ruthless Death un-mated. 
 The fulfillment of that promise tendered with thy 
 dying breath ? 
 Vv^hen, to soothe the pang of parting, 
 Thou didst say thy spirit, darting 
 Upon Love's lightning pinions from beyond the sea 
 of Death, 
 
 tc 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Oft and surely— Heaven consenting— 
 Would visit me on earth again in loneliness lamenting ? 
 
 Or doth thy spirit fondly hover 
 
 Still around thy earth-chained lover, 
 
 Suffusing with thy presence 'though unsein to mortal 
 eyes ; 
 
 And, with daily gt owing frequence, 
 Tracing up the tangled sequence, 
 Lead back his thought to dwell upon these tender 
 memories, — 
 Fittingly his spirit weaning 
 From all remembrances of earth which have least 
 heavenly meaning ? 
 
 Only know I,— moaning dirges, 
 And the restless, sobbing surges 
 Of the dark and troubled waters of the melancholy 
 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 
 are breaking. 
 
I 
 
 TO A CHILD SLEEPING. 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on, thou tiny thing, 
 
 Encradled in thy innocence. 
 What b)est repose thy slumbers bring — 
 
 Unconscious joy to every sense ! 
 Not softlier breathes the budding rose 
 
 When evening breeze forgets to kiss ; 
 Nor sweetlier that bud let blows 
 
 When fondling sunbeams 'vake to bliss. 
 Sweet emblem of humanity's young dawn, 
 Sleep gently on. 
 
 The dews that gem thy stainless brow 
 
 Were never wrung from heart distressed 
 These crystal drops, that roseate glow, 
 
 But note thy energy of rest. 
 Already that last lingering tear, 
 
 Of babe-hood's little troubles born. 
 Has fied thy silken lashes there. 
 
 As flee the tears of sunny morn , 
 And now thy joyous dreams call up a smile 
 So sweet the while ! 
 
 \U 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Novv^happy sighing, closelier pressed 
 
 Thy latest, dearest, treasured toy ;— 
 Fast fold it to thy yearning breast,-^ ' 
 
 A little miser in thy joy !— 
 And dream again what wealth of love 
 
 Thou bearest for that senseless thin- ■ 
 What tender cares thy bosom move ; 
 
 The -only grief-in-play " they bring- 
 Then curl thee closer in thy birdling nest ' 
 And happy rest. 
 
 Oh, must that in;ant 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 ! 
 
 Alas ! mayhap thy little heart 
 
 May harden in this frozen world ; 
 And thou mays't choose the demon part ; 
 Thy destiny, to ruin hurled ; 
 
 149 
 
l! '^, 
 
 150 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 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 far engulphed in Death's dark river !■ 
 Sleep, sleep forever ! 
 
 i 1 
 
AT JHANSl. 
 
 "It is all true about Frank Gordon. He Alick 
 Skene "(Capt. Alexander Skene, 68,h Ben JnI 
 
 nan.y,...,-3..,,andare.peo„s;X^n; 
 get mto a small round tower, when the H" . ! 
 
 began "-(on the 8th of Jun :8 " 1 T''"'' 
 M.u . -^ ' ^^57. when the lonl 
 
 Mahometan authorities, with the aid of the n,u i.,' 
 Sepoys, massacred, with the usual .trocLTTZ 
 Europeans, including women and childre," ' Th 
 children and all the rest were in ofl, 
 
 fort-altogether 6o r , I P"'' "^ *^ 
 
 to^etner 6o. Gordon had a rea„lar h,tf„ 
 
 of guns, also revolvers ; and he and qi ° ^'''^""'•y 
 the rebels •,« f, f 7 ""^ P"^''«d off 
 
 .oadinXtLrTi:!;:::-"^-"-^ 
 
 once.andberoreitwasaCr" ; J7:'r 
 -ny wounded. The rebels, afL eh h;: aM 
 
 : ''' '"'] ''-"^''' '^'^ders against the tZ'a, 
 commenced swarming up. F,-ank r ^ 
 
 through the forehead'and kille : :fr ;"r tt" 
 
 saw it was Of no use going on any r; so ::::; 
 h.s w.fe, shot her, and then himself." 
 
 " Incidents of the Mutiny." Extrirt fr. 
 'etter from the ///»..W ..ir^^e^f '^'^ 
 5th, 1857. ^^eptember 
 
jl 
 
 ..I ' 
 
 f 1* 
 
 153 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 They come ! — relentless as Destiny ! 
 They come, like waves of a midnight sea, 
 And, like those waves on rock-bound shore — 
 Hark, to the deep and savage roar ! 
 On ! — on they come, a madden'd host, 
 By inborn phrensy wildly toss'd. 
 Each dark face, darker with hatred's scowl, 
 Breathes the tiger's lust in the tiger's howl. 
 They are drunk with dying heroes' breath. 
 As vainly they gave themselves to death, 
 And with babes' and mothers' gentle blood j 
 Yet gasp they still, as the starv'd for food, 
 Their swarthy arms all crusted o'er 
 With streak and clot of human gore. 
 
 Now all through Jhansi, fort and town, 
 
 Of English hearts there beats not one \ 
 
 And rampart, street, and cantonment. 
 
 Are strewn with corpses innocent. 
 
 All — all are gone, save three alone, 
 
 Escap'd lO this small tow'r of stone, — 
 
 A husband, wife, and friend — but three 
 
 Against a countless enemy. 
 
 In arms two gallant brothers, they 
 
 Had fought through many a bloody day, — 
 
 Had hunted many a jungle drear 
 
 In comradeship, unknowing fear. — 
 
 And lo ! their well prov'd baitery 
 
 Might charm a hunter's — soldier's eye ; 
 
 Its every deadly weapon well 
 
 Past triumphs of the chase could tell ; — 
 
^i'SCEU..Lyj;OUS fOEMS. 
 
 ^«ah g.eatHeav'„ !_...ere better fac- 
 VVith monsters of the desert war 
 Than yonder howling throng defv - 
 
 Insatiate still with butchery;- 
 
 The fiercest, .-onsters of the' wild 
 Can only kill-have ne'er defil'd - 
 
 And she .hat fair young English wife. 
 S 'II qu,ck to all the sense of life, 
 
 Though deathly pale, no plaint, or tear 
 Betokens aught of craven fear- 
 No panic tremors o'er her come 
 Precursors ofa coming doom. ' 
 
 Still raging come the countless crew, 
 W h hastenmg tramp and wild halloo. 
 Already see their eyes' fierce glow'r, 
 As press they on that window'd tow'r 
 Now, rifle— quick '_T1,« • — 
 
 One Payn,m soul has sunk to hell ' 
 
 Another and another falls 
 
 But naugh,,Heirhead,on:rage appals; 
 More fiercely howl the baftled host 
 
 And fiercelier press the -leaguer'dp'ost; 
 'I' - e from that volcanic tower 
 
 The bullets shriek in deadly shower; 
 
 Nor falls one shot but Wings to death ' 
 
 A traitor m the throng beneath.- 
 And thou, true wife and woman fair, 
 T.S h,„e the lightnings to prepare- 
 
 Jo charge anew each rifled bore 
 IV.th deft e..pertness quick and sure. 
 
 L 
 
 '53 
 
II i 
 
 154 MlSCKLl.AM.OUS POEM^. 
 
 Her ready hand no moment lingers ; 
 Swift fly thusc nimble, slender fingers ; 
 And ne'er more dexterously they hied, 
 When to some toilet task applied, 
 In peaceful days, in dainty bower, 
 Than now within that hell-like tower. 
 
 On, — on they come, with sliriek and blare[; 
 More fiercely near their eyeballs glare. 
 Oh, faster still 'he litle ply! 
 Be firm 'Jie hand and true the eye ! 
 The scaling ladders mount the wall, 
 And up the thronging murd'rers crawl. — 
 Revolvers! — Swords: — Dash back the host! — 
 A moment more and all were lost! — 
 One hero falls. — Is wounded ? — Slain ! 
 The husband antl the wife remain. 
 They feel the panting Sepoys' breath — 
 But not the doom more dread than death! — 
 She springeth to lils uutstretch'd arms ; 
 Nor wail, nor cry, his nerve disarms : — 
 " One kiss, fond dearest — 'lis our last ! " — 
 Onethouglit 'iox England — friends — the past. — 
 Two rapid shots fror.:his right hand ; 
 They, closer prcss'd, a moment stand; 
 Then .slowly sink — they fall — and see 1 — 
 Unsever'd still — ihauK God, they're free! 
 
A REMIXrSCEx\Cfv 
 
 Where two stately, waving maples 
 
 Carol softly to the gale ; 
 Where the smoothly swarded upland 
 
 Gently slopes to intervale ; 
 Where a spring of purest water, 
 
 Gushing from its pebbly bed, 
 Wanders forth by grassy margins, 
 All by vagrant fcxncies led,— 
 'Mid the alders now and elders. 
 
 Dimpling now the placid pool, 
 Where the wild-duck promenading 
 
 Proudly breasts the waters cool. 
 
 Lo, there come two joyous children 
 
 How they skip, and lilt, and bound — 
 As he guides his litde sister 
 
 To the treasures he has found ;— 
 Only wild strawberry blossoms, 
 
 Sometimes too a violet, 
 Or the buttercup so golden 
 
 In its grassy saucer set ; 
 Surely never other flowers 
 
 Were so lovely, any where, 
 As these firstling of the Springtime 
 Which they fondly gather there. 
 
IS6 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Then he tells her wondrous stories 
 
 Of these Summer harbingers, 
 Till his everv feature gladdens 
 
 In the eloquence of hers. — 
 Alas I too soon that sister slept 
 
 Beneath the flowers she lov'd to see I 
 Too long that brother hath bevvept 
 
 A sweetly mournful memory I 
 
 I' I 
 
 !. 
 
 
THE VALENTINE. 
 
 What sends to me the lover's queen ? 
 'Tis jesting sure she must have been. 
 
 A living, smiling Valentine ! 
 
 An angel, baby Valentine ! 
 Yet staring with asionish'd ccn, 
 As wondering what it all could mean. 
 
 A coaxing, cooing Valentine,— 
 
 A purring, wooing Valentine ; 
 Everybody's fondled pet,— 
 
 To me a laughing Valentine, 
 All love and frolic; never yet 
 
 Was such another Valentine! 
 
 Still, she would be my Valentine ; 
 
 No rival's eye should on me shine ;— 
 She will'd it like a little queen,— 
 This Valentine, my Gwendoline. 
 
 Airy, fliiry Gwendoline,— 
 
 Laughing, chaffing Gwendoline,— 
 At morn or eve, in rain or shine, 
 An ever cheery Valentine; 
 
 Now dancing, now in kitten play, 
 
 Or mock solemnity of mien 
 Still bright'ning all, the live-long' day. 
 My little, loving Gwendoline. 
 
158 
 
 MlSCELLANIiOUa J'OLMS. 
 
 Then ever be my Valentine, 
 
 My once wee i)et, dear daughler mine. 
 
 Though laid aside the baby ways, 
 
 lie still, unto niy end of days, 
 A true and tender Valentine, — 
 A lovely, loving Valentine, — 
 
 My purest-hearted Gwendoline! 
 
 My sweetly-leniper'd (iwendoline! 
 And long I hope that thou may'st be, — 
 
 As says my heart that thou hast been, — 
 A life-long comforter to me, 
 
 My Valentine, sweet Gwendoline. 
 
 »u 
 
FARKWKLL IJLUK IIILIo (;F COiJlCL^UID. 
 
 I'AKKWKM,, blue hills of C:()!,c.iuicl_ 
 
 Thy rippling strc.uns. thy Hashing tide. 
 Farewell, far rolling garden mead, 
 
 In glinting splendours prank'd and dyed. 
 How oft, as now, with raptiir'd eye, 
 
 I've gaz'd, in days long p.ist, on thee, 
 And told, in childhood's hap|)y sigh, 
 Thou wert a paradise to nie. 
 
 To me no spot in all that scene, 
 
 IJy sunlight kiss'd, where shad(jws lie, 
 
 Remains unlink'd to sacred pain 
 Or tender thrill of memory. 
 
 There I, in wanton mirth, have laugh'd; 
 Have joy'd in toils of mi.-nic strife ; 
 
 Youth's purest luxuries have quaffd; 
 And felt a rai)ture ev'n in life. 
 
 A long procession wends its way 
 
 Adown the valley, sad and slow,— 
 
 A living stream of memory, 
 
 In solemn silence all, they go. 
 
 Ah, there is Friendship's tender smile ; 
 And there, the b^iaming eye of Love ; 
 
 That gath'ring throng of life erewhile— 
 All fades to signt at yonder grove. 
 
i 
 
 160 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Oh, not Ambition's witching dreams 
 
 To wear the garland of renown ; 
 Not that keen restlessness which seems 
 
 Of wanderers' innate nature grown ; 
 Nor all the v/ealth of gems and gold 
 
 In caverns of Aladdin hid, 
 Might lure me from thy tender hold, 
 
 Oil, loveliest vale of Cobequid ! 
 
 Yet Destiny, with iron arm. 
 
 Doth drag me hence, afar from thee ; 
 Henceforth for me thy every charm 
 
 Is but a sadden 'd memory. 
 I cannot, would not, hide this tear. 
 
 As slowly, sadly fades the view : 
 Oh, scene of all on earth most dear 
 
 To me, I sob a last adieu ! 
 
 September, tSSo. 
 
s 
 
 CANADA. 
 
 ForT ? "'' °'"^°'''"^ ''°'" tru„,pet and horn ; 
 For th,sdny to the family of nations is born 
 
 Our Canada J 
 
 Let the thunders awaken to tell the old earth 
 How we joyously welcome this travai'-loss birth 
 
 Of Canada. 
 Let the bonfires blaze fron, the hill's highest crag, 
 And unfurl to the breeze the yet spotless youngflag 
 
 Of Canada ! 
 While tne people, exulting with shout and with cheer 
 Proclam to the listening nations how dear 
 
 Is Canada ! 
 
 Blessed child of a glorious parentage 
 
 Born into the world in its brightest a'^e 
 
 No deluge of blood does thy young liTe'in,merso 
 
 Nor stamped on thy brow is a mother's curse. 
 
 AlUmtrammeled thy ,i„,bs by the cankering chains. 
 The h,,,„,„„^„ ,„,,^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^^,^^ ^^^. ^^^ 
 
 Wh.ch systems at war, in the gloon, of the past, ' 
 Have over thy suffering sisterhood cast • 
 
162 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Thou art free as the wind o'er thy prairies that blows, 
 And strong in the vigour that hourly grows ; 
 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 this heritage, 
 
 Oh, Canada ? 
 
 Reposing there on thy Northern throne, 
 
 With 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 
 
 V>y 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 
 
 Be, not the contrivance by impotence planned, — 
 
 A chaos of fiction, or error, deceit, 
 
 Where Anarchy's smile is Society's cheat ; — 
 
MISCELLAA'Eors POEMS. 
 
 16: 
 
 But the law, e'er evolving to infinite years, 
 
 And which lives in the music of numberless spheres, 
 
 Developing ever what best is in man, 
 
 And ignoring the creed of Humanity's ban ; 
 
 Whilst ever in Civilisation's advance, 
 
 In the vanguard shall quicken thy brightening glance, 
 
 Till the sorrowing 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 
 
 And all things regarding with bestial eyes, 
 
 Would abase thee to grade of the prostitute. 
 
 And thy name, and thy fame, and thy honour pollute ? 
 
 Shall the reckless empiric and impudent fool 
 
 Presume o'er thy splendii Dominion to rule. 
 
 And punily wise whilst viciously daft, 
 
 Go aping old wiles of exploded s.ate-craft. 
 
 In an endless procession, forever the same. 
 
 With " reform " but the change of a factiom'st name ? 
 
 Shall a verminly host of curruptionists crawl 
 
 O'er the face of thy loveliness, fouling it al!. 
 
 Till their carcases, gorged with the tide of thy life, 
 
 Make the stench of pollution where sweetness was rife • 
 
 Whilst their poison, cast back in thy nurturing pores,' 
 
1 64 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 ] 
 
 1 1.'' 
 
 It' 
 
 Marks their trail centipedal with festering sores, 
 
 The spume of a leprosy raging beneath, 
 
 And making thy life one long, lingering death ? 
 
 Shall the knave sanctimonious and smooth hypocrite, 
 
 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 ; 
 
 Till the wise of thy children — most loved of thy 
 
 heart, — 
 Away from the sight of thy 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 ; — 
 For that prayer will react on the uttering Will, 
 To uplift, to expand, and intensify still. 
 May thy sons, with due mete of their dignity rise. 
 To wrestle, like men, with their destinies ; 
 Tut away childish things; self-reliant and bold, 
 Drawing lessons of truth from the lore of the old. 
 Yet seeking forever intensified light, 
 Rear thy empire proudly in wisdom and right; 
 And ever their glories ancestral advance, 
 With more than the splendours of England and 
 France; 
 
^^^^^"^CELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 i6s 
 
 Till thy banner of peace pnri ^r 
 
 Shill hU ■ , ""^ progress unfurled 
 
 >:^nan blaze in the vii-. ^r i . "»'cu, 
 
 T 1 Dear Canada i 
 
 J"ly 1st, 1867. ^^naaa!