, Oc,C ';;::, S 3 tfl? fcfct ArthurWentw aton OTHER BOOKS BY DR. EATON ACADIAN LEGENDS AND LYRICS THE HEART OF THE CREEDS, Historical Religion in the Light of Modern Thought THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND IN NOVA SCOTIA AND THE TORY CLERGY OF THE REVOLUTION TALES OF A GARRISON TOWN (with C. L. Betts) POEMS OF THE CHRISTIAN YEAR POEMS IN NOTABLE ANTHOLOGIES RECOLLECTIONS OF A GEORGIA LOYALIST, Edited and Introduced EDUCATIONAL WORKS, Compiled and Edited FAMILY HISTORICAL MONOGRAPHS ACADIAN BALLADS AND DE SOTO'S LAST DREAM ACADIAN BALLADS AND DE SOTO'S LAST DREAM BY ARTHUR WENTWORTH EATON NEW YORK THOMAS WHITTAKER Copyright, 1905 By ARTHUR WENTWORTH HAMILTON EATON All Rights Reserved Published November, 1905 TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM EATON AND ANNA AUGUSTA WILLOUGHBY HAMILTON EATON p. 3 H Ft. PREFACE IN 1710 the ancient poetical name Acadia given by noble French explorers to the beautiful Province of Nova Scotia was changed, but for purposes of poetry the name will forever endure. The history of the Province covers more than a century of intermittent French rule and nearly two centuries of continuous English rule and in both periods are to be found remarkable events and notable women and men. Some of the more strik- ing of these events and the more notable of these men and women are commemorated in the follow- ing poems. The Tory ballads touch one of the most picturesque events in Anglo Saxon history, the migration of some thirty thousand of the people of what are now leading states of the American Union to the loyal "Province beside the Sea." Among these were almost the whole of the aristocracy of Boston and a large number of the proudest people ix PREFACE of New York. Many of the exiled Tories settled finally in the province of New Brunswick, not a few embarked for England, some when peace was re- stored came back to their old homes in New Eng- land or New York, but a large number staid in Nova Scotia and founded important families in Halifax and other, smaller, towns. The ballad entitled "Puritan Planters" commemorates the advent to Acadia in 1760 and '61 of some thousands of New England people, who thus came into pos- session of the valuable lands of the expatriated French. In this volume, in point of time the French lyrics should have come first; it has seemed best, how- ever, to reject the chronological order and give the English ballads first. Wherever the poems, either of the French or the English period, are his- torical the proper dates have been given. Through- out the volume will be found, it is hoped, somewhat of the vivid local colour of the famed Acadian Land. November, 1905 CONTENTS PART I PAGE PURITAN PLANTERS 3 THE ARRIVAL OF HOWE'S FLEET 9 A BALLAD OF THE TORIES 15 LADY WENTWORTH 21 OLD WHARVES 26 ST. PAUL'S CHURCH 29 THE COTTAGE 34 ORCHARDS IN BLOOM 37 ATLANTIC MISTS 39 IMPRESSIONS 41 THE LADY OF THE FLOWERS 42 PURPLE ASTERS 46 ALICE HAMILTON 48 JOSEPHINE , 51 DEATH IN ACADIA 53 A SAINT 57 xi CONTENTS PART II PAGE THE LEGEND OF GLOOSCAP 61 L'!LE SAINTE CROIX 65 POUTRINCOURT'S RETURN TO PORT ROYAL.. 68 L'ORDRE DE BON TEMPS 72 THE BAPTISM OF MEMBERTOU 76 LA TOUR AND BIENCOURT 80 MADAME LA TOUR 83 THE NAMING OF THE GASPEREAU 86 THE GHOSTS OF THE ACADIANS 91 THE PHANTOM LIGHT OF THE BAIE DES CHALEURS 97 DE SOTO'S LAST DREAM 100 PORT ROYAL 105 GRAND PRE 106 CHEBUCTO BAY 107 xn PARTI PURITAN PLANTERS 1760 THE rocky slopes for emerald had changed their garb of gray When the vessels from Connecticut came sailing up the Bay, There were diamonds on every wave that drew the strangers on, And bands of sapphire mist about the brows of Blomidon. Five years in desolation the Acadian land had lain, Five golden harvest moons had wooed the fallow fields in vain, Five times the winter snows had slept and summer sunsets smiled On lonely clumps of willows, and fruit trees grow- ing wild. ACADIAN BALLADS There was silence in the forest and along the Minas shore, And not a habitation from Canard to Beau Sejour, But many a blackened rafter and many a broken wall Told the story of Acadia's prosperity and fall; And even in Nature's gladness, in the matchless month of June, When every day she swept her harp and found the strings in tune, The land seemed calling wildly for its owners far away, The exiles scattered on the coast, from Maine to Charleston Bay, Where with many bitter longings for their fair homes and their dead, They bowed their heads in anguish and would not be comforted, And like the Jewish exiles, long ago, beyond the sea, Refused to sing the songs of home, in their cap- tivity. But the simple Norman peasant-folk shall till the land no more, PURITAN PLANTERS For the vessels from Connecticut have anchored by the shore, And many a sturdy Puritan, his mind with Scrip- ture stored, Rejoices he has found at last, "the garden of the Lord." There are families from Tolland, from Killing- worth and Lyme, Gentle mothers, tender maidens, and strong men in their prime, There are lovers who have plighted their vows in Coventry, And sweet, confiding children, born in Newport by the sea. They come as came the Hebrews into their prom- ised land, Not as to rough New England shores came first the Pilgrim band; The Minas fields were fruitful, and the Gaspereau had borne To seaward many a vessel with its freight of yellow corn. They come with hearts as true as are their manners blunt and cold, ACADIAN BALLADS To found a race of noblemen of Calvinistic mould, A race of earnest people whom the coming years shall teach The broader ways of knowledge, and the gentler forms of speech. They come as Puritans, but who shall say their hearts are blind To the subtle charms of nature, and the love of humankind ? The rigorous New England laws have shaped their thought, 'tis true, But human laws can never wholly Heaven's work undo, And tears fall fast from many an eye, long time unused to weep, For o'er the fields lie whitening the bones of cows and sheep, The faithful cows that used to feed upon the broad Grand Pre, And with their tinkling bells come slowly home at close of day. And where the Acadian village stood, its roofs o'er- grown with moss, 6 PURITAN PLANTERS And the simple wooden chapel, with its altar and its cross, And where the forge of Basil sent its sparks toward the sky, The purple thistle blossoms, and the pink fireweed grows high. ********* The broken dykes have been rebuilt, a century and more, The cornfields stretch their furrows from Canard to Beau Sejour, Five generations have been reared beside the broad Grand Pre, Since the vessels from Connecticut came sailing up the Bay. And now across the meadows, while the farmers reap and sow, The engine shrieks its discords to the hills of Gaspereau, And ever onward to the sea the restless Fundy tide Bears playful pleasure yachts and busy trade ships, side by side. And the Puritan has yielded to the softening touch of time, ACADIAN BALLADS Like him who still content remained in Killing- worth and Lyme, And graceful homes of prosperous men make all the landscape fair, And mellow creeds and ways of life are rooted everywhere. And churches nestle lovingly on many a glad hill- side, And holy bells ring out their music in the eventide; But here and there on untilled ground, apart from glebe or town, Some lone, surviving apple tree stands blossomless and brown, And many a traveller has found in summer, as he strayed, Some long-forgotten cellar in the deepest thicket's shade, And clumps of willows by the dykes, sweet-scented, fair, and green, That seemed to tell again the story of Evangeline. THE ARRIVAL OF HOWE'S FLEET 1776 THE fogs have lifted from the wharves, the harbour's course is clear, And groups of men with eager eyes crowd each projecting pier; Some climb the grassy slope that lies above the wooden town, Some from the rambling roofs that shade the un- paved streets look down, And all are gazing oceanward beyond the islands green, Where, specks of white against the blue, a hundred sail are seen; The fishermen in suburbs lone, from cabins by the shore Look out in fear lest France has come to claim the land once more. A hundred sail, and on they move across the harbour bar, ACADIAN BALLADS And every watcher strains his eyes to see what sort they are, But as the squadron closer comes fear changes to surprise, For at the mast of every ship the flag of England flies. "The Tory fleet!" the word goes round, the "fleet from Boston Bay! What news, good friends of Howe's command, bring you this bleak March day ? Have you overcome the rebel mob and shown them England's might ? And shall we make great bonfires blaze about the town to-night ? " "No, friendly Sirs of Halifax, give us a pitying hand, We come as routed troops, and not as men in proud command, The raw recruits have more than matched our veteran force, and we Have given the siege of Boston up and brought our ships to sea." And now the vessels come to port, and Howe him- self is seen 10 THE ARRIVAL OF HOWE'S FLEET Among red-tunicked officers of land troops and marine, And sailors, soon, with rolling gait, and soldiers trim and neat, March up the wharves that fringe the town, and fill each narrow street. At last a myriad canvas tents are pitched on the Parade, 'Neath which, below the silent stars, a myriad heads are laid, For Howe has brought, beside the troops, from the long siege away, The gentry of the capital of Massachusetts Bay. What change for men who long have housed in city mansions fair, What grief to find themselves at once of all their goods stripped bare; But O the gentle women reared in luxury and pride, And O the homesick little ones, that all the voyage have cried! From Tremont, Milk, and Marlborough Streets these wanderers have fled, From stately homes near Beacon hill, closed sud- denly in dread, ii ACADIAN BALLADS From Cambridge old, and Roxbury, and Milton, here they meet, This multitude compelled to ask protection of the fleet. The Brattles and the Brinleys and the Olivers are here, The Gores and Greens and Sewalls, Belcher, Caner, and Lechmere, The Royals and the Vassalls can it be such men as they Have been driven to hopeless exile from their homes on Boston Bay ? Aye, the mansions are all empty near the base of Beacon Hill, Or enshrine plebeian strangers, and the enemy at will In the Province House and churches everlastingly reviles The haughty Tory gentry and their prophet, Mather Byles. From what superior walks of life these courtly men have come, In council room, at bench or bar, and in the inces- sant hum Of Boston's richest trade-marts they have long been used to rule, 12 THE ARRIVAL OF HOWE'S FLEET Their minds and manners moulded in the most punctilious school. In powdered wigs and waistcoats fine and swords that dangled free They exercised a princely sort of hospitality, Their homes with heavy silken stuffs and orient woods were fair, And spicy perfumes of the east lent sweetness to the air. These ladies, too, the mistresses of every art re- fined, With elegance of form and rarer elegance of mind, Their petticoats of rich brocade, their jewels and point lace Scarce emphasized their breeding high or added to their grace. No wonder, then, these exiles feel the present but a dream That certainly will vanish, as goes by the turbid stream; But the past will never come again, whatever their fate may prove, They have said good bye forever to the homes and haunts they love. '3 ACADIAN BALLADS The future of these gentlefolk encamped beside the sea, Can oracle or sibyl strange divine what it shall be ? Where shall these high-born women find homes fit their charms to hold ? Not surely in this little town less than three decades old. Yes, some of them in Halifax shall tarry till they die, The men patrician-souled and proud as a nobility, The women gracious-mannered, yet exclusive as of yore, With aversion for republics, loving England more and more. Scant praise received these Loyalists from those they left behind, Perhaps their minds were prejudiced, perhaps their eyes were blind, But, right or wrong, they suffered, and to-day men yield the claim That not alone the "Patriots" deserved the patriot name. A BALLAD OF THE TORIES 1784 THE Tories are embarking for the Province by the Sea, They have left their homes on Broadway and beside the Battery, The mansions are deserted that overlook the Bow- ling Green, And in the highways to the wharves unwonted sights are seen. First, matrons fair with powdered hair and haughty looks go by, Then gentle maids, whose colour shames the rose- tints in the sky, Then fine Colonial gentlemen, and boys of manly grace, But sorrow unmistakeable appears in every face. There are Barclays and De Lanceys, there are Purdys, half a score, 15 ACADIAN BALLADS There are Livingstons and Ludlows, Bayards, Thornes, and many more, There are Rapaljes and Remsens, Wilmots, Wig- ginses, and Wards, Judges, councillors, and farmers, doctors, lawyers, priests, and bards. They are pressing to the water on the city's eastern side, They are stepping up the planks that reach the ships that there are tied, They are waving to their friends on shore most piteous farewells, They are weeping in their cabins as weep prisoners in their cells. The guns of war are silent that have boomed for seven years, The British have been routed, and there seems no cause for tears, But the Barclays and De Lanceys are as sad as sad can be, And their ships are in the harbour for the Province by the Sea. Is it prejudice that sways them, are they blind to all the wrong 16 A BALLAD OF THE TORIES Their compatriots have suffered from the English rule so long? Is it cowardly submissiveness that makes these Tories hate The newly formed Republic and its officers of state ? Are the Ludlows and the Robinsons so sunk in selfishness That they have no souls to sympathize with common men's distress; Are they willing that the people should be slaves the country o'er If their own exclusive privilege is only kept secure ? There is surely something better back of protest such as theirs, There is good stout-hearted loyalty below such tears and prayers, They have loved the flag of England and the throne so firm and strong, Though they know King George is narrow and his ministers are wrong, And they cannot give allegiance to a governmental plan 17 ACADIAN BALLADS Which concedes the right of sovereign to the very lowest man, That makes friends with all fanatics who shout loud for liberty, But has no meed for Loyalists but shame and obloquy. So the Tories are embarking, such a sad, distress- ful band, On the rugged shore of Shelburne, in the old Acadian land, They will build another city and contented try to be, Though they love their homes on Broadway and beside the Battery. There the spirit of rebellion will not show its hate- ful head, There to English institutions people always will be wed, There, though present ills may irritate, men's hearts will never lag In loyal love for England and devotion to her flag. But that rugged shore of Shelburne will be mourn- ful many a day 18 A BALLAD OF THE TORIES With the sighing of the pilgrims who are sailing fast away From the homes their love has fashioned, from the church their faith has reared, And the churchyard by a thousand hallowed memories endeared. Though the skies that overarch them have the same delightful blue, Though the friends they value highest like them- selves are exiles too, Though good Inglis, who so stoutly for the King has always prayed, Will be with them soon as Bishop, to help keep them undismayed, They will mourn that England's children such hostility could show To the mother who had reared them, and their spirits will sink low At the world's degeneration, its distrust of all things old, At the shallow views that skeptics in these later ages hold. Yield them reverence, not dishonour, this once execrated band, 19 ACADIAN BALLADS It was principle that made them give up their native land, They loved their homes on Broadway, but they loved the old flag more, And they chose the lot of exiles on a rugged foreign shore. So the mansions are deserted that overlook the Bowling Green And in Manhattan's thoroughfares the owners are not seen; But in those streets and houses better men will never be Than the Tories who have started for the Province by the Sea. 20 LADY WENTWORTH SIR JOHN WAS CREATED A BARONET IN 1795 A WOMAN of fashion and wit and grace, The Governor's wife in Portsmouth town, From Copley's canvas still looks down Beautiful Frances Wentworth's face. When the Tories were shorn of rank and power In somebody's ship she sailed away, And England's capital many a day Enjoyed the fair New England flower. Governor Wentworth, rich and great, Had stood so staunch for the British crown That England presently set him down With a miniature court, in semi-state, In the loyal province of Acadie, A land where the British flag still flew And British bugles daily blew, A governor once again to be. 21 ACADIAN BALLADS Hither the beautiful Frances came With her worshipful lord, and soon her grace Made grim old Government House a place Of splendor and pomp and brilliant fame. And Governor Wentworth prouder grew, And the King as a mark of his pleasure gave This subject of his, so leal and brave, A baronet's title, bright and new. When the honour was known in Halifax Congratulations by the score Through the daily post began to pour, Magnificent in sealing-wax, And Governor John to his lady spoke, And they ordered a drawing-room held one day, Late in the blossomy month of May, For the Haligonian gentlefolk. All the most notable men of the town, Judges, and councillors twelve, were there, The Council's president came in a chair, With lace on his suit of velvet brown. 22 LADY WENTWORTH Greatest of all was the Duke of Kent, Who rode with an aid at his royal side, Colonels and captains, too, the pride Of the army and navy thither went. Blowers and Brinley and Brenton and Strange Drove to the door with their wives and their wij Some in chariots, some in gigs, Or walked, perhaps, for a healthful change. Cochran and Francklin and Stewart vied With Wallace and Lawson, so they say, In eloquent tributes all that day To the florid governor's family pride. Wonderful costumes were there, I ween, Satin waistcoats of every hue, Carnation and yellow, mauve and blue, Coats of the richest bottle green, Dresses of lutestring and brocade Falling from bodices long and slim, Point-lace handkerchiefs, fastened prim, Powdered hair over cushions laid. 23 ACADIAN BALLADS Sweet was the air as it well could be, Attar of rose and amber blent With lavender and the entrancing scent From Indian jars of pot-pourri. Masculine tongues by wine were freed, Good souchong by the dames was taken, Gentlemen snuffed, if I'm not mistaken, Brilliant the levee was indeed. Lighting the whole like a sun or a star Was beautiful Lady Wentworth's face, And away from the spot where she stood in grace Nobody lingered long or far. The Prince spoke low in her exquisite ear, Inglis, the bishop, touched his lips In a dignified way to her finger tips, And the other people all pressed near. When the levee was over the verdict stood That the Halifax Wentworths were just as fine As their kin of the old Fitzwilliam line, Or the Rockingham branch, of noble blood. 24 LADY WENTWORTH The Baronet's wife ere long became Lady in waiting to Charlotte, the Queen, And fairer face or statelier mien England's court can scarcely claim, But Lady Wentworth, as all agree, Won for her charms the highest praise In those dear, far-off Colonial days At Government House in Acadie. OLD WHARVES HALF a century ago, On the tides that shoreward swept, Merchant vessels, swift or slow, To the harbour leapt or crept. From the fertile Indian isles In hot Southern seas they came, Over Ocean's countless miles, With red sunset fires aflame. Fruited cargoes here they brought, Guava, ginger, fig, and prune, Rice and spice, and rare birds caught In the sluggish tropic noon. These old wharves re-echoed then All the sounds of seaport trade, Pulleys plied by strong-armed men, Noisy anchors cast and weighed; 26 OLD WHARVES Crashing, carrying, cheering loud, Wild discordant bawl and brawl, Black and white, a motley crowd Ah, but how men loved it all! And the masts that hedged the town, How they creaked in every breeze, Standing bold and bare and brown, Like unnumbered forest trees. Proud old wharves, so silent now, Haughtier in your grim decay Than when many a princely prow Sought you from the lower bay, Symbols of dead dreams are ye, Figures of the phantom piers Where we made so buoyantly Anchor in our earlier years. Yet the barren tides that creep Up the harbour night and morn, Plunge and plash and laugh and leap Round your bases old and worn, ACADIAN BALLADS Nothing now of sadness bear, For our barks have found since youth Roomier wharves, in harbours where They may anchor fast to truth, Till Time's petty traffic done, All the bawl and brawl and strife, Happier voyages are begun To the shores of endless life. ST. PAUL'S CHURCH BUILT IN 1750 TIMBERED in times when men built strong, With a tower of wood grown gray, The frame of it old, the heart still young, It has stood for many a day. Winter and summer its bells ring out, Jangle and clang and churn, Music set for a merry rout, With strains of a sweet nocturne. The citadel glacis, smooth and steep, And the granite fort on high With its dangerous moat that none may leap, And the rambling barracks nigh, Seem as if made to serve its need, To watch at its gates like friends, As if barrack and moat, and church and creed Pursued the same great ends. 29 ACADIAN BALLADS Tablets cover its ancient walls To men of virtues rare, And hatchments as in English halls, In gules and gold, are there, And the same great throngs go in and out As have gone a hundred years, Gentle and simple dark with doubt, Oppressed by saintly fears, Or with pride so pent in their narrow souls That they have no power to see That the favour of God to the meek is lent, Though mean their lot may be. What thrilling tales the church might tell, What welcome sights reveal, If a wizard's word could break the spell That now its lips enseal, It would picture the days when Breynton stood At the top of its pulpit stair, Gentle and generous, brave and good, A stalwart man of prayer, 30 ST. PAUL'S CHURCH It would tell of the Tories from Boston Bay Who camped its walls beside, Or flew to its friendly arms to pray At morn or eventide, Of women for fashion's sake who came To its portals dark, in chairs, Of ponderous men with transient fame Who patronized its prayers, Of the Loyalist Wentworth as he made Response to the service free, Of Lady Frances in silk arrayed, And their heir, young Charles-Mary, Of soldier-governors proud, niched high In the walls of English fame, Who voiced in its shade the human cry: "Forgive, O Lord, my shame!" It would point to the names of those that rest 'Neath chancel and aisle and pew, De Seitz with the orange on his breast, And Greville Montagu, 31 ACADIAN BALLADS Of privileged councillors, judges grave, And men of towering trust, And British soldiers, staunch and brave, All turned to powdered dust. It would tell of the happy unions sealed Within the hallowed fane, Of the widowed souls that here have reeled, 'Neath staggering loads of pain ; Of wraiths that have risen of sins long past As people tried to pray, Of light that has shone from heaven at last And shamed the shades away. Word of a wizard to break the spell That lies, old church, on thee, To open thy lips and bid thee tell Thy treasured thoughts to me I never pass through thy portals kind, When here my feet have chanced, That silvery tongues do not unbind And hold me long entranced. 32 ST. PAUL'S CHURCH Timbered in times when men built strong, Thy tower of wood grown gray, The frame of thee old, the heart still young, Dear church, for many a day, Winter and summer, thy bells aloud Shall jangle and clang and churn, And men in thy shadow, meek or proud, The way of heaven shall learn. 33 THE COTTAGE IN a quaint cottage in the Acadian land A poet's youth was spent, Where waving dykes await the mower's hand And orchards almost drown the air with scent. In rambling picturesqueness on a hill, Clad with luxuriant vines the cottage stood, With gardens back where one could watch at will The rich red tides sweep up from Fundy's flood. On the dark walls within, the livelong day, The sunbeams wove patterns of loveliest grace And many a morn the boy half-conscious lay And dreamed that round him hung like folds of lace Fine purple fabrics woven by Indian looms For princely palace walls inlaid with gold; That subtle-textured stuffs bedecked the rooms And splendid tapestries with scenes of old, 34 THE COTTAGE And shimmering silks; that unknown hands had drest With them the winding halls and parlours square, Draped the deep windows looking east and west And made the old mansion plain a palace fair. Such things he pictured till the morn went by, Then the mixed colours that his garden wore, The shadowy elms, the soft clouds floating by To loftier realms his fervid fancy bore. Visions of heavenly beauty haunted him, The velvet dykes, the fields in which he strayed, The blossoming orchards, even the forest dim, Were thronged with spirit-forms that round him played. Who does not love the place where first he knew Imagination's wondrous witchery, Where his cramped soul first gathered wings and flew Beyond the accustomed bounds of sky or sea; Who, travelling onward toward the setting sun Keeps not in tender thought his earliest feast Of beauty, when amidst sweet scenes he spun Ecstatic visions, being nature's priest ? 35 ACADIAN BALLADS Gone is the cottage where in fresh day dreams The boy to lovely lands first winged his flight, Drank deep, delicious draughts from beauty's streams And felt the glory that sweeps round our night, But the same sense of colour, form, and sound Lives in him, and he knows that by and by, Back of disharmony, when the Truth is found, Beauty unspeakable will be seen to lie.' ORCHARDS IN BLOOM BANKS of bloom on a billowy plain Odours of orient in the air, Pink-tipped petals that fall like rain, Allah's garden everywhere. Infinite depths in the blue above, Glint of gold on the hill-tops gray, Orioles trilling songs of love With tireless throats the long June day. Fields of emerald, tufted white, Yellow, and azure, far outspread O the measureless soul-delight In the scent of the clover blossoms red! Revel of joy, sweet ecstasy, Perfect life of the year begun, Nothing to whisper of what shall be When earth lies ripe in the autumn sun, 37 ACADIAN BALLADS Never a hint that the orchards wide Where Heaven's pink incense-torches burn In the swift on-moving summertide To heavy-fruited woods shall turn. Pleasure it is to him who sips The nectarous sweets that open here, Maddening bliss to him who dips Deep in the bowl of the blossoming year. Banks of bloom on a billowy plain, Odours of Heaven that fill the air, Pink-tipped petals that fall like rain, Allah's garden everywhere! ATLANTIC MISTS UP from the sea the white mists roll, Soft as the robes a dancer sways, Pure as the dreams that swathe the soul Of a laughing child, at peace always. The blue-veined hills at the north they hide With a veil that hangs like filmy gauze, And they lower and lift and fling aside Their matchless drapery, without pause. Grange and meadow and dyke below Lie in the sun in calm content, Hither and thither like wraiths they go, But their shadowy grace on the cliffs is spent. Up from the sea of silence sweep Beautiful visions to the soul, Thoughts that rest on the mountain steep But have no power o'er the plain to roll; 39 ACADIAN BALLADS Man is the child of field or grange, So we say when our eyes are blind; But the blue-veined hills we all shall range And truths the white mists are, shall find. 40 IMPRESSIONS BREADTHS of green and blue on the shallow water, Tufts of lighter green o'er the dune-lands gray, Soundless deeps on deeps of a colour blended Of green and blue and gold, in the sky to-day. Topaz fires and red on the shallow water, Rose and emerald mixed on the dune-lands gray, Flames of crimson, gold, and Tyrian purple, This was the sunset blazon yesterday. Opalescent tints on the shallow water, Pink and green and blue on the dune-lands gray, Lustrous lights in the sky, a pearly splendour, Pageant this, of many a perfect day. THE LADY OF THE FLOWERS UP and down the garden walks Every day I watch her go, Past great clumps of nodding stalks Crowned with blushing crimson roses, Or with lilies, white as snow. Lilacs dashing on the air Persian odors, in delight Bend and almost touch her hair; On the bough where he reposes Sings the oriole with his might. She has crocuses in spring, Yellow, purple, pink, and gray, Daffodils that round her fling Gold magnificently minted, Snowdrops tender, jonquils gay. 42 THE LADY OF THE FLOWERS Tulips, scarlet-mantled, turn Richer red as she goes by, Royal princesses that spurn In their splendour, all unstinted, Other flowers that venture nigh. Easter lilies crave the touch Of her carmine-tinted lips, Finer flowers by far than such As bedeck the fields immortal, Whose soft fragrance Juno sips. Down a pink-plumed peony row Into purple iris lanes, Onward still I see her go, To a Turk's-cap-lilied portal, Where perpetual coolness reigns. There in deep, luxuriant bowers Of wistaria, rich with bloom, Sits the Lady of the Flowers, Queens have subjects, myriads rally Round her beautiful throne-room. "High midsummer pomps" ere long Crowd about their sovereign's feet, 43 ACADIAN BALLADS Orange-spiked tritonias throng, Orient poppies outward sally To protect her royal seat. Indian pinks, and blue-bells bound In a chaplet, she may wear, Trumpet flowers in crimson gowned Like the queens of eastern story She may have to deck her hair. When September's gold and red Make the world a sea of flame Round her in ripe splendour spread "Indian visions steeped in glory," Putting earlier scenes to shame, Purple phlox in rich array, Salvia in conspicuous rows, Yellow cannas, larkspur gay, Mignonette and musk carnations, Dahlias in majestic pose. All alike possess her heart, She is sovereign, that they know, But she never dwells apart 44 THE LADY OF THE FLOWERS Like the queens of other nations From her folk on planes below; Through the winding garden walks Every day she freely moves, Holding sympathetic talks With her friends, whatever their stations, For the meanest one she loves. 45 PURPLE ASTERS 1HAD a garden when I was a boy, Wherein I planted fondly many a flower And watched it grow until I felt the joy That every gardener feels, as Nature's power To make rare scents exhale from stalks of green And dash rich colors o'er dull earth is seen. In that old garden, bright with varied bloom From crimson tulip time till winter fell, It seemed as if no flower begotten of gloom Had any right, or even should dare to dwell, Yet o'er one spot where wildness still held sway A sullen, sad, persistent shadow lay. Amongst the grasses tangled field flowers grew, Fringed, tender, trembling things that we called weeds (Names mean so little), always wet with dew, 4 6 PURPLE ASTERS That clung to their pale disks in liquid beads, They seemed in the fine colour-symphony Of the gay garden minor chords to be. Here each September purple asters came When earth wore gold and scarlet on her breast And fields were ripe and Autumn's flood of flame Swept noiseless o'er the woods from east to west, They flaunted not in regal violet bloom But seemed like tearful souls begot in gloom. The lives of men are gardens from whose soil Spring deep red-petalled roses, violets blue As heaven; where passion flowers, too, fix their coil Round frail anemones, heartsease, and rue; But in some sheltered spots, bright blooms beside, Pale, pleading purple asters always hide. They tell us there are gardens richly clad In crimson, sapphire, gold, awaiting men Beyond the stars, where heavy hearts grow glad And never to low levels sink again; Can life so change that in such lands shall be No purple asters of despondency ? 47 ALICE HAMILTON AS through a scented clover lane I walked one summer day, I met blithe Alice Hamilton, Of the Hamiltons of Brae. The sunlight rippling o'er the fields And round the landscape gay Caressed young Alice Hamilton, Of the Hamiltons of Brae. A gown of filmy white she wore, As free from soil or stain As her fresh life was free from care, Her fervid heart from pain. Ere long she met a ragged girl, The child had lost her way And cried as if her little soul Would burst, that summer day; ALICE HAMILTON She took the sad one in her arms And wiped its tears away And kissed it, Alice Hamilton, Of the Hamiltons of Brae. What matter if her gown were soiled, She cared not for the stain, Her heart on the sweet task was set Of soothing children's pain. Her tenderness was deep, and so There never passed a day That from her love God did not light A lamp for some dark way. 'Twas long ago she went from earth Within the shadows gray, Dear, helpful Alice Hamilton, Of the Hamiltons of Brae; She died before her own young heart Had felt life's bitterest pain, While laughter yet lay close to tears As sunshine does to rain, 49 ACADIAN BALLADS While violets still with carpets blue Screened all unsightly clay, And daffodils danced merrily Beside the dreariest way, But the clear torch she set alight Shines like a sun to-day, And men bless Alice Hamilton, Of the Hamiltons of Brae. JOSEPHINE WHEN Lady Falkland made her home In this fair land of Acadie She loved incessantly to roam About the woods and fields with thee, O'er many a daisied meadow, green, She danced with thee, sweet Josephine. Past hedges of pink roses, wild, That on the air their fragrance fling, Ye wandered, thou scarce more than child, She daughter of the Sailor King; Where clustered hawthorns outward lean Ye rested, often, Josephine. Down lilac-bordered lanes ye went, With honeysuckle half abloom, And caught the shy, delicious scent ACADIAN BALLADS Of slender violets, hid in gloom, Ye plucked the saffron celandine And flaming Turk's-cap, Josephine. When autumn's ripeness filled the air And woods with scarlet were inwrought And golden-rod gleamed everywhere, The deep-blue gentian, fringed, ye sought, No flower that grew was e'er too mean To make your garland, Josephine. She begged thy mother, but in vain, For long companionship with thee, She would have had thee in her train, Her ward at court, perchance, to be, What marvels might'st thou not have seen Had'st thou gone with her, Josephine! Ye parted, as so many part; The fire of love, a ruddy flame, Kindled in each responsive heart But doomed to perish as it came, To be revived, sometime, I ween In friendlier worlds, young Josephine. DEATH IN ACADIA CRIMSON the leaves of the maples had grown, Earth in a purple pall was sleeping, The South wind came with a stifled moan Into the open casement creeping ; From stagnant pools in the slumbering hills The brook flowed languidly to the ocean, And the tired wheels of the labouring mills Were roused to only a feeble motion. Home from the fields the reapers came, Late-gleaned sheaves of the harvest bringing, Deep in the forest, still aflame, The last of the summer birds were singing ; Grapes on the vine and glistening corn With asters and golden-rod were vying, Alas that the year so blithely born Should now in autumn's arms be dying! 53 ACADIAN BALLADS The death of the year, and otherwhere Death had fallen with loud lamenting, There were spirits voicing strange despair, There were some in silent grief-shades tenting. Gone, could it be, from the face of the sun! She who had reared strong lives and spoken Words that had given men power to run The roads of the world, so steep and broken. Gone, could it be! and summer still Rich in her veins and gold yet glinting From her beautiful brow, so smooth until Suddenly pain made cruel minting. O the agony of the parting, When the child in fear beholds his mother Torn from the life she loves and starting, Through what strange gates God knows, on another; In difficult roads, perchance, to falter, Weak for the want of the old sustaining, Sick for the dear domestic altar Whereon love burned, a torch unwaning. 54 DEATH IN ACADIA With the crimsoning maples this had come, Night had fallen on her noonday glory, And common pity's lips grew dumb Nor stammered out: "A time-worn story!" The mourners lay 'neath a wintry sky And saw from the frosty welkin's lashes Tears fall fast, though their own were dry As the fiery orb's when it flames and flashes. But there dawned at last a sweet new day, When over the hill tops hope came bursting Into the hearts so cold and gray, Into the souls for comfort thirsting; Out of the silence wave-like swept A stream of faith and strong believing, And the mourners, prostrate, upward leapt And drank it in, and ceased their grieving. Crimson the leaves of the maples had grown, The vines with the purple fields were vying, Purple and crimson flowers were strown On the fresh-made grave where her form was lying 55 ACADIAN BALLADS And crimson and purple blending there Became such glory as covers heaven When the sun, at rest in his palace fair, To the sky his royal robes has given. Crimson the petals of hope had grown, A purple pall o'er faith was lying, But suddenly doubt was overthrown And the mourners knew there was no dying. A SAINT WHATEVER crowns the just may wear, Whatever worlds of light there be, I know his soul, unshackled, free, Has come to share. He reared an honourable name, He lived almost the allotted span, Since time first dawned no vigorous man Has earned less blame So ran the record when he died ; But who could fitly mete his worth, His freedom from the sins of earth, Deceit and pride; His inward sense of righteousness, The heed he gave to duty's call, His faith that sorrows, great and small, Are sent to bless. 57 ACADIAN BALLADS Men seek the paths self-love has planned, He scorned to walk in tortuous ways, The light that lured him all his days Was God's command. His heart with pity was imbued, And patience and self-sacrifice, He gave men these, and asked no price, Even gratitude. O saint, upon thy radiant brow Such light appears we veil our eyes, Heaven make us half as strong and wise, And great, as thou! Whatever crowns the just may wear, Whatever worlds of light there be, Thy spirit now, unshackled, free, Must fully share. PART II THE LEGEND OF GLOOSCAP BARING its breast to the sun as of yore Stretches the fertile Acadian shore; Waiting for sickle and scythe and wain Glisten its fields of golden grain. Like a sabred sentinel, grim and gray, Blomidon stands at the head of the Bay, And the turbulent ocean tides at will Sweep into Minas Basin still. Deep in the hills the Gaspereau Babbles on to the sea below, Crystal and clear, till Fundy's flood Makes it a river red as blood. Here is the spot, enringed with blue, Where sparks from the forge of Basil flew, Under these clustered willows green Dwelt Gabriel's love, Evangeline. 61 ACADIAN BALLADS Long ere the Frenchmen drove away The encroaching tides from broad Grand Pre, Binding the dykes like emerald bands Round the murmuring meadow lands, The Micmac sailed in his birch canoe, In the track of the moon, the Basin blue, Hunted the hills, or fell asleep By his wigwam fire in the forest deep. Skilled in many an Indian art The dark-faced mother crooned apart To her tired babes the folk-songs wild That are sung to each Algonquin child. Over the tribe with jealous eye The Father of All kept watch on high, In the purple mists of Blomidon The mighty Glooscap had his throne. No matter how far his feet might stray From the usual haunts of the tribe away When the Micmac uttered his cry of fear He found his Glooscap there to hear. 62 THE LEGEND OF GLOOSCAP 'Twas Glooscap had sent for the Indian's use Beaver and bear and mink and moose Into the heart of the wild woodlands; Glooscap had strewn the sparkling sands Of the tide-swept beach of the stormy Bay With amethysts purple and agates gray; And into the heart of love had flung That which keeps love ever young. But the Frenchman came and with ruthless hand Cut the forests and cleared the land, And plowed and planted, till on the shore Micmac and moose were seen no more; And Glooscap went with his heart opprest Into the wild, mysterious west, While the Micmac kindled his wigwam fire Far from the grave of his child and his sire. Now, bravely bearing the thrusts of fate, Passive-spirited, free from hate, He hunts the moose when the snows lie deep Fishes the streams where salmon leap, 63 ACADIAN BALLADS Or patiently weaves his baskets gay And paddles his birch canoe away; But he always dreams of the ages when Glooscap shall dwell with his tribe again. L'lLE SAINTE CROIX THE FIRST FRENCH SETTLEMENT IN AMERICA WAS MADE HERE IN 1604 WITH tangled brushwood overgrown, And here and there a lofty pine, Around whose form strange creepers twine, And crags that mock the wild sea's moan, And little bays where no ships come, Though many a white sail passes by, And many a drifting cloud on high Looks down and shames the sleeping foam, Unconscious on the waves it lies, While midst the golden reeds and sedge That, southward, line the water's edge, The thrush sings her shrill melodies. No human dwelling now is seen Upon its rude, unfertile slopes, Though many a summer traveller gropes For ruins midst the tangled green, 65 ACADIAN BALLADS And seeks upon the northern shore The graves of that adventurous band That followed to the Acadian land Champlain, De Monts, and Poutrincourt. There stood the ancient fort that sent Fierce cannon echoes through the wold, There waved the Bourbon flag that told The mastery of a continent; There through the pines the echoing wail Of ghostly winds was heard at eve, And hoarse, deep sounds like those that heave The breasts of stricken warriors pale. There Huguenots and cassocked priests, And noble-born and sons of toil, Together worked the barren soil, And shared each other's frugal feasts, And dreamed beneath the yellow moon Of golden reapings that should be, Conjuring from the sailless sea A glad, prophetic harvest-tune, 66 L'lLE ST. CROIX Till stealthy winter through the reeds Crept, crystal-footed, to the shore, And to the little hamlet bore His hidden freight of deathly seeds. Spring came at last, and o'er the waves The welcome sail of Pontgrave, But half the number silent lay, Death's pale first-fruits, in western graves. Sing on, wild sea, your sad refrain For all the gallant sons of France, Whose songs and sufferings enhance The witchery of the western main, Keep kindly watch before the strand Where lie in hidden mounds, secure, The men De Monts and Poutrincourt First led to the Acadian land. POUTRINCOURTS RETURN TO PORT ROYAL JULY, 1606 THE Western world, unclaimed and free, A trackless forest lay, Of dark pines by the polar sea, Of palms by Tampa Bay, Beneath the sheltering woods of Maine A few French graves were seen, And one lone flag, the flag of Spain, Waved o'er St. Augustine, When up Port Royal's basin flew, Before the freshening breeze, A ship whose weather-beaten crew Had long sailed stormier seas. Beyond the narrow ocean door Rough-rolling Fundy lay, But Fundy's fiercest tides forbore To enter this blue bay. 68 POUTRINCOURT'S RETURN The red-coned, resinous, raftered pines The rocky heights o'erhung, And down the laurel-starred inclines The elms thick shadows flung, Wild blossoms, scarlet, blue, and gold, Spread colour everywhere, And tiny throats sweet love tales told July's soft, sensuous air. Across the Atlantic, lonely, vast, An almost untrod sea, Proud Poutrincourt has come at last With his mixed company; Enraptured to the decks they press, Hope in their hearts so strong That some tell out their happiness In strains of Breton song. Here lies Port Royal; here Champlain And venturous Pontgrave Have made in Poutrincourt's domain A long, delightful stay; ACADIAN BALLADS And here at last in safety dwell, Once more attuned to joy, The broken band whose comrades fell At sorrowful St. Croix. Some on the Bay are voyaging, But some run down the shore And make the woods with welcome ring To valiant Poutrincourt. The Micmacs, too, the strangers pale With friendly gestures greet, And round the ship delighted sail Their mimic birchen fleet. At last into the harbour green A little sloop rides gay And soon beside her masts are seen Champlain and Pontgrave, Then while the Bourbon lilies meet The winds in glad caress, Stout-hearted men each other greet With yearning tenderness. 70 POUTRINCOURT'S RETURN Thus rose in clear Acadian skies Port Royal's peaceful star, No Spanish conqueror's cruelties Her earliest annals mar. Though warlike men in later days Laid waste the lovely shore, Acadia's patriot sons must praise The valorous Poutrincourt, For he built on the Basin's strand, Above the meadows green, The oldest town in all the land Save quaint St. Augustine. L'ORDRE DE BON TEMPS WINTER OF 1606-7 TWO hundred years ago and more, When history was romance, The white flag of the Bourbons flew From all the gates of France, And even on these stern Western shores Rock-ribbed and forest-mailed, The Bourbon name, the Bourbon fame With "Vive le Roi" was hailed. O "Vive le Roi!" and "Vive le Roi!" Those wild adventurous days When brave Champlain and Poutrincourt Explored the Acadian bays, When from Port Royal's rude-built walls Gleamed o'er the hills afar The golden lilies of the shield Of Henry of Navarre. 72 L'ORDRE DE BON TEMPS A gay and gallant company Those voyagers of old Whose life in the Acadian fort Lescarbot's verse has told, In mirth and merriment they formed Their "Order of Good Cheer" And many a mimic revel kept Throughout the winter drear. Aye, while the snow blew wildly o'er The meadows crisp and bare, And hooded the adjacent hills Like nuns of Saint-Hilaire, Each day they spread a goodly feast Not anywise too poor To suit the taste of such as dine In famous Rue Aux Ours. Then as the old French clock rang out, With echoes musical, Twelve silvery strokes, the hour of noon, Through the pine-scented hall, 73 ACADIAN BALLADS The Master of the Order came To serve each hungry guest, A napkin o'er his shoulder thrown, And flashing on his breast A collar decked with diamonds, And pearls and turquoise blue, While close behind in warrior dress Walked old Chief Membertou; Then wine went round, and friends were pledged With kindly courtesy, And ne'er was heard one longing word For France beyond the sea. O days of bold adventure past, O gay, adventurous men, Your "Order of Good Times" I think Shall ne'er be seen again, For proud Port Royal's fortress is A peaceful ruin now, Where booming guns have yielded place To sickle, scythe, and plow, 74 L'ORDRE DE BON TEMPS And commerce rules these shores remote, And trading vessels ply The seas where frigates used to float The Bourbon flag on high, And kings and queens and captains brave To other lands are wed, And the rare witchery romance gave These western wilds is dead. THE BAPTISM OF MEMBERTOU JUNE 24, l6lO UT of the fort ! " came the word of command, "Shoreward, good comrades of Poutrin- court's band!" Wide swung the gates in the earth-bastioned wall, No one delayed, save the guard, at the call. Soldiers stepped quickly with clattering feet Over the wooden moat-bridge to the street, Swords rattled, sabre sheaths flashed to the sky, Sentries saluted and colours waved high. Through fern-clad fields to the shell-covered shore Swift marching, trod the trained veteran corps, Captained, accoutred, as if on the tide Some English war-ship that day had been spied. THE BAPTISM OF MEMBERTOU Look o'er the basin as far as you may Not a sail flecks the horizon to-day, Not a sound ruffles the still air of June Save the satisfied swish of the tide at high noon, But by the sea-verge, his eyes to the east, Vested and stoled, stands the Recollet priest; Captains and courtiers around him, in state, Lackeys and laborers, expectantly wait. Forth from their steep-pointed wigwams of pine Silently stepping in slow single line, Speechless, as if by a vision struck dumb, Hundreds of wampum-decked Indians come, Back of old Membertou, chief of the land, Reverently facing the friar they stand, Childlike, submissive, some true sense of need Sealing their spirits to Christ and his creed. Eastward the river, lethargic and dun, Lies like a serpent asleep in the sun, Southward the forest, an ocean of green, Rolls its luxuriant waves from the scene. Suddenly sounds from the guard on the wall One silver bugle-blast, and at the call 77 ACADIAN BALLADS Josue Fleche, the spare Recollet priest, Piously crossing himself to the east, Chants in good Latin faith's formula old, Said through the ages by millions untold. Making the sign of the Christian belief First he baptizes the gray-headed chief, Then to the tribe fathers, twenty or more, Gives the blest rite, while away from the shore To the edge of the pine woods, all trackless and dim, Travel the strains of the Church's great hymn : "Te Deum laudamus" sing soldier and priest, "The world doth adore thee, the west like the east; Acadia's children with angels on high Henceforth to the Son of the Virgin shall cry." This was the new world's first triumph for God, Here on Port Royal's fresh-burgeoning sod Poutrincourt's pioneer band ushered in Christian beliefs and the conquest of sin. Carry the news of it back to the east, Tell how Acadia's Recollet priest Won to the Church and her sacraments true These Micmac men and their chief, Membertou, 78 THE BAPTISM OF MEMBERTOU Plucked the first fruits of whole harvests to be, Kindled a fire that the ages should see; Let the news spread how a continent came Under the sway of the thrice holy name! 79 LA TOUR AND BIENCOURT BIENCOURT DIED IN 1623 WHEN Henry of Navarre was king The muse would sometimes lure The gay Lescarbot's lips to sing In praise of Poutrincourt, My muse commands me shrine the names In sympathetic lay Of two sweet youths, whose friendship claims Fond thoughts from us alway. From France light-heartedly they sailed, Youngest of all the band Whose fortunes ruddier grew, or paled, In the Acadian land. Here their fresh lives enlinked as one And love's rich fruitage bore, No sweeter union 'neath the sun Than Biencourt's with La Tour. 80 LA TOUR AND BIENCOURT They trod the strand of purple bays, Explored the forests deep, Canoed the dark-pooled water ways Where salmon plunge and leap, Welcomed the first faint flush of spring, The warm light on the hills, The happy bluebirds on the wing, Nature's unnumbered thrills, Outwatched the light of summer moons Amidst old Fundy's roar, Listened the crying of the loons On Digby's lonely shore, And every season's fresh surprise Kindled their love anew, And every toilsome enterprise Their hearts still closer drew. At last Biencourt's fortunate star The western skies upclomb, And to the court of proud Navarre His fame went echoing home, 81 ACADIAN BALLADS But in the vicarious rule of France, Amidst the strife and stir That marked young Acadie's advance, Two heads and hearts there were. Ere fortune's light had come to wane, Or hope to dim by doubt, Somewhere in his beloved domain Biencourt's life went out, And bitterer tears were never shed By manly eyes before Than grief wrung for his brother, dead, From loyal Charles La Tour. Henceforth the Acadian coast to him Was like a desert bare, The sedge that lined the river's brim Sang out his grief to air, He sought the spots where sad pines moan And plaintive hemlocks wave, And many a night he slept alone Beside Biencourt's grave. 82 MADAME LA TOUR DEFENCE OF THE FORT, APRIL, 1645 AGAINST the background of the shadowy years Are painted, but they have no smiles or tears Or heart-throbs, like the living ones we know, The forms of most great men, dead long ago. Some spirits have there been in history, Who with the vanished centuries cannot die, But in the living world still keep their place, So strong are they, so charged with every grace. This noble heroine of the Acadian land, A woman born for love and for command, Enframed with brilliant forests and blue bays Seems like a picture, but she lives with us always. Amidst the fogs that hide the rugged face Of the New Brunswick shore with filmy grace, 83 ACADIAN BALLADS In Fort La Tour, stockaded, bastioned, bold, The great seignorial captain's chief stronghold, She long withstood the plunderer Charnisay, Her husband's enemy, who night and day, Camped near the walls, with cat-like, covetous eyes Sought the small force that held it to surprise. Denys has told us that with breaking heart She stood, compelled to bear a witness* part As, trapped at last by fiendish treachery, Her faithful soldiers were led out to die. Then wrung with pain, with eyes forever blind To sights of joy, through desolate days she pined, Till where the tides fall tremulous on the shore She slept, the heroic wife of Charles La Tour. Whence came she to Acadia, what her name, Live her French forefathers in rolls of fame, Why braved she wild, tempestuous ocean floods, To find rude shelter in these homeless woods ? Our questions echo 'gainst unanswering skies, The forests, too, guard well their mysteries; But Acadie's traditions would be poor Without the memory of Dame La Tour. MADAME LA TOUR Devoted woman, Greece and Rome of old Admiring tales of their great daughters told, And shall we let thy name be lost among The multitudes whose lives go all unsung ? Ah no, beside the stern New Brunswick strand And through the length of this delightful land Thou shalt be well remembered; even the sea Shall sing continuous requiem for thee. THE NAMING OF THE GASPEREAU ABOUT 1673 NOW the rainbow tints of autumn Deck the ancient hills And the dreamy river saunters Past the lazy mills, Let us seek the murmuring forest Where the pines and hemlocks grow And a thousand fringed shadows Fall upon the Gaspereau. When the first Acadian farmers, Sailing up the Bay, Landed with their goods and cattle On the fair Grand Pre, Wandering through the ancient forest, Claude, Rene, and Theriot, In a vale of wondrous beauty Found the River Gaspereau; 86 THE NAMING OF THE GASPEREAU Found the simple-hearted Micmac, In his birch canoe, Paddling down his Magapskegecbk To the Basin blue, Little dreaming of the presence Of the Indian's pale-faced foe, Singing unmelodious boat-songs On the winding Gaspereau. Midst the brushwood and the rushes And the trembling ferns, Where the River, sighing, singing, Speeds with many turns Through the gateway of the mountains Toward the meadows far below, On they crept in silent wonder By the sun-kissed Gaspereau. In these days of dream and legend, Life all fresh and new, Even humble Norman peasants Into poets grew; From their roaming in the forest Claude, Rene, and Theriot Brought their comrades magic stories Of the vale of Gaspereau. ACADIAN BALLADS By the crackling hemlock fire In a cabin rude, With their store of cheese and brown-bread And their ale, home-brewed, Gathered then the Norman peasants, And at last Rene said low: "Let us name the new-found river Gaspere-water, Gaspereau!" Gaspere was the kindliest comrade In their little band, None so buoyant, none so eager Through the Acadian land; But ere half the voyage was over, On fierce Fundy's rolling seas Suddenly there crept beside him Some old shadow of disease. There was mourning in the vessel, Strong men sobbed and cried, When one evening just at sunset, Gentle Gaspere died; There was wailing in the vessel As, with trembling voice and slow, Pere Deschambault read the death-prayers As the still form sank below. 88 THE NAMING OF THE GASPEREAU Dreary was the voyage thereafter On the cruel Bay, Till they reached the sheltered, smiling Meadows of Grand Pre, Then their accustomed songs at evening Were subdued and sad and low; So they named the lovely river, With fond memory, Gaspereau! Many a summer, when the plowing In the fields was done, And the busy looms were growing Silent, one by one, Lovers in the mellow moonlight, From the travelled streets below, Sought the path across the meadows To the banks of Gaspereau. When there came some loss or sorrow To the little band; When the dykes broke, or the crops failed In the Acadian land, Many a tired wife and mother, In the silver twilight-glow Sought relief from dark foreboding By the peaceful Gaspereau. ACADIAN BALLADS Vanished are the Acadian peasants, Sweet Evangeline, Gabriel, Benedict, and Basil, And no sadder scene Ever gave itself to story, Than that scene of wreck and woe When the English ships weighed anchor In the mouth of Gaspereau. Still it flows among the meadows, Singing as of yore To the ferns and trailing mosses On the winding shore; To the pines that dip their branches In the crystal wave below, And the crimson leaves of autumn Falling in the Gaspereau. 90 THE GHOSTS OF THE ACADIANS y T T is the hour of sunset, and the hills of Gaspereau * Lie half in purple shadow and half in crimson glow; Day's deafening chorus ended, on the clear-echo- ing air The college bell is ringing a special call to prayer. The fitful, faltering music, as through a swaying door Sweeps now across the Basin to distant Beau Sejour; Then, weakening to a chorus of laughter, sobs and sighs, Seems like a ghostly requiem sung by dead centuries. Below the embowered village extends the wide Grand Pre, 9* ACADIAN BALLADS A thousand emerald acres, where light and shadow play, And there the gleaming water, and the masted ships that ride Near Blomidon, grim guardsman of the gateway of the tide; And fisher-people tying belated boats to shore, And farmers plodding homeward, all weary and footsore, And children calling cattle that from the dykes have strayed, And great hay-wagons creeping from out the wil- lows' shade. But soon the darkness deepens and night's cold dews come down, And then the Acadian farmers roam forth through field and town. Again above the ramparts of bastioned Beau Sejour The white flag of the Bourbons salutes the Cobe- quid shore, And rude French fishing vessels drift outward to the Bay, 92 THE GHOSTS OF THE ACADIANS And peaceful homes encircle the meadows of Grand Pre. Above the rustic cradle, to hush her baby's cry, The fond Acadian mother sings sweet French lul- laby, And maidens with their lovers dance on the village green, Amongst them stalwart Gabriel, and his Evange- line, While from the open church door, as young at heart as they, Nods saintly Pere Felician, and bids his flock be gay. But now New England soldiers are camped by Basil's forge, And o'er the town is waving the red cross of St. George, And British swords are gleaming, and women are in flight, And children's cries are rending the silence of the night. At last fierce flames encircle the houses of Grand Pre, And Winslow's vessels hurry upon the tide away, 93 ACADIAN BALLADS While lurid shadows linger where red gleams fell aslant The fruitful fields of Minas and the dykes of Habitant. O pity for the sorrow that shrouds the Minas shore, The bitter desolation of ancient Beau Sejour, The weeping of the exiles across the moaning tide, The Acadian farmer people, that in strange lands abide. From Maine to California, bewildered groups, they stand, With eyes turned ever eastward to the Acadian land, Their plaintive songs reechoed by strange, un- feeling skies, Like the old Mantuan shepherd's or Hebrew psalmist's cries. O poor Acadian peasants, ye fell on troublous times, When lust of large dominion filled all the world with crimes, When Holy Church gave sanction to most unholy strife And the Galilean's gospel was not the law of life. 94 THE GHOSTS OF THE ACADIANS Now, wrongs like those ye suffered, thank Heaven, have ceased to be, Since church and state know better Christ's law of charity, Now men repose in safety by labour's peaceful forge, 'Neath the white flag of the Bourbons and the red cross of St. George; Yet earth has misconceptions and cruelties to- day As great as caused your downfall, ye peasants of Grand Pre, The lust of power is rampant, the love of gold is strong, Some use in selfish pleasure what others gained by wrong, The young too soon bear burdens, the aged toil too late, Hearts made for trust and pity are driven to fear and hate. Slow comes the reign of knowledge, slow dawns the perfect light; But from a thousand hill-tops we look into the night And see earth's wide horizon in many spots aglow, 95 ACADIAN BALLADS And spite of present darkness and present pain we know That some day false ambition shall turn to purpose strong, And be he counted conqueror who lives to conquer wrong. THE PHANTOM LIGHT OF THE BAIE DES CHALEURS the laughter of pines that swing and sway Where the breeze from the land meets the breeze from the bay, 'Tis the silvery foam of the silver tide In ripples that reach to the forest side; 'Tis the fisherman's boat, in a track of sheen Plying through tangled seaweed green, O'er the Baie des Chaleurs. Who has not heard of the phantom light That over the moaning waves, at night, Dances and drifts in endless play, Close to the shore, then far away, Fierce as the flame in sunset skies, Cold as the winter light that lies On the Baie des Chaleurs ? 97 ACADIAN BALLADS They tell us that many a year ago, From lands where the palm and the olive grow, Where vines with their purple clusters creep Over the hillsides gray and steep, A knight in his doublet, slashed with gold, Famed, in that chivalrous time x>f old, For valorous deeds and courage rare, Sailed with a princess wondrous fair To the Baie des Chaleurs. That a pirate crew from some isle of the sea, A murderous band as e'er could be, With a shadowy sail, and a flag of night, That flaunted and flew in heaven's sight, Swept in the wake of the lovers there, And sank the ship and its freight so fair In the Baie des Chaleurs. Strange is the tale that the fishermen tell, They say that a ball of fire fell Straight from the sky, with crash and roar, Lighting the bay from shore to shore; That the ship, with a shudder and a groan, Sank through the waves to the caverns lone Of the Baie des Chaleurs. THE PHANTOM LIGHT That was the last of the pirate crew; But many a night a black flag flew From the mast of a spectre vessel, sailed By a spectre band that wept and wailed For the wreck they had wrought on the sea, on the land, For the innocent blood they had spilt on the sand Of the Baie des Chaleurs. This is the tale of the phantom light That fills the manner's heart, at night, With dread as it gleams o'er his path on the bay, Now by the shore, then far away, Fierce as the flame in sunset skies, Cold as the winter moon that lies On the Baie des Chaleurs. 99 o DE SOTO'S LAST DREAM 1543 N a shadowy plain where cypress groves And spreading palm trees rise, And the antlered deer, swift-footed, roves, The brave De Soto lies. They have made him a bed, where high overhead The trailing moss entwines With the leaves of the campion flower red, And gleaming ivy vines. Over his fevered forehead creeps, From the cedar branches high, The wind that sleeps in the liquid deeps Of the changeless southern sky, And the Mississippi's turbid tide, Broad and free, flows past, Like the current wide, on which men glide To another ocean vast. 100 DE SOTO'S LAST DREAM He dreams of the days in sunny Spain When heart and hope were strong, And he hears again on the trackless main The sound of the sailor's song. Now, with the fierce Pizarro's band, To wield the sword anew, He takes command on the golden sand Of the shores of proud Peru, And northward now, from Tampa Bay, With glittering spear and lance, With pennons gay, and horses' neigh, His cohorts brave advance. Again, as the glittering dawn awakes From its dreams of purple mist, By the stoled priest he kneels and takes The holy eucharist, And the echoing woods and boundless skies Are hushed to soft content, As the strains of the old Te Deum rise On a new continent. 101 ACADIAN BALLADS Again he sees in the thicket damp, By the light of a ghastly moon, The crocodile, foul from his native swamp, Plunge in the dark lagoon. Again o'er the wild savannas flee From his feet the frightened deer, And the curlews scream from tree to tree Discordant notes of fear. From deep magnolia woods abloom, And orange thickets white, Drunk with the sensuous perfume Shrill mocking birds take flight, And calm in the depths of her silken nest, Embowered in softest green, With scarlet breast and golden crest, The wild macaw is seen. In the waving grass, on yucca spires, Near flowers of pallid hue Are born the erythrina's fires And the starry nixia's blue; 102 DE SOTO'S LAST DREAM The rich gordonia's bosom swells Where the brooklet ripples by, And silvery-white halesia bells Reflect the cloudless sky, And graceful southern mosses, brown, With gleaming ivies twine, And heavy purple blooms weigh down The dark wistaria vine. Now on his bold Castilian band The native warriors press, From their haunts in the trackless prairie land, And the unknown wilderness, And the flame he has kindled gleams again On his sword of trusty steel, As he burns, midst the yells of savage men, Their village of Mobile. Like the look of triumph o'er victories won That dying conquerors wore, Or the light that bursts from the setting sun On some cold, craggy shore, 103 ACADIAN BALLADS The fire of hope lights up anew The brave adventurer's brow, A roseate flash, then death's dull hue, And his dream is over now. So, on the plain where cypress groves And spreading palm trees rise, And the antlered deer, swift-footed, roves, The brave De Soto dies. 104 PORT ROYAL ABOUT this ancient earth-work and this wall, Where rude spiked gates on heavy hinges hung, The shouts of armies many a time have rung, And thunderous cannon sounded loud o'er all. Here, night and morn, the echoing bugle call Close to the farthest wooded hill-tops clung, Here with her lilies to the breezes flung, France held Acadia in romantic thrall. Here Bourbon nobles carved the fleur de lis, And waved the white flag of the Bourbon kings; Here Acadie's first convert, Membertou, The aged Micmac chieftain, bent the knee To Christ; and here on wide-expanded wings The hostile fleets of British sovereigns flew. 105 GRAND-PRE V A RARE enchantment rests upon the place Where Gabriel wooed and won Evangeline; On these broad, fertile dyked-lands, emerald-green, Lies the soft spell of a romantic race. Where winds the Gaspereau with serpent grace Along the vale, Acadian homes have been, On this slight mound they tell us once was seen A cross-crowned church; here ancient willows trace A favorite street, while in this open field Tradition says the Acadians placed their dead. Yonder lies Minas Basin in the sun, Gleaming like some recumbent warrior's shield; Above, a white mist-turban round his head, Sheik of the land sits hoary Blomidon. 106 CHEBUCTO BAY WHEN England's power at last would be complete On all the tide-washed shores of Acadie, Cornwallis brought his goodly company, Anchoring in this blue bay his noble fleet. Here grew a sturdy city, street by street, And forts were reared beside the surging sea, Here royal Edward dwelt, grandsire to be Of him whose empire scarce knows bound or mete. Here Wentworth and his Tory compeers came When fierce rebellion rent the neighboring land, Foes to the foes of England and the king; To this proud citadel of ancient fame, Decade by decade, white-sailed war-ships manned By soldier seamen, British warriors bring. 107 rOBED AT NRLF THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, SANTA CRUZ This book is due on the last DATE stamped below. 3 2106 002