Upwards of one thousand of the Acadian peasants forcibly taken from their homes on the Gaspereau and Basin of Minas were assigned to the several towns of the Massachusetts colony, the children being bound by the authorities to service or labor.
THE robins sang in the orchard, the buds intoblossoms grew;Little of human sorrow the buds and the robinsknew!Sick, in an alien household, the poor Frenchneutral lay;Into her lonesome garret fell the light of the Aprilday,Through the dusty window, curtained by the spider'swarp and woof,On the loose-laid floor of hemlock, on oaken ribsof roof,The bedquilt's faded patchwork, the teacups on thestand,The wheel with flaxen tangle, as it dropped fromher sick hand.
What to her was the song of the robin, or warmmorning light,As she lay in the trance of the dying, heedless ofsound or sight?
Done was the work of her bands, she had eaten herbitter bread;The world of the alien people lay behind her dimand dead.
But her soul went back to its child-time; she sawthe sun o'erflowWith gold the Basin of Minas, and set overGaspereau;
The low, bare flats at ebb-tide, the rush of the seaat flood,Through inlet and creek and river, from dike toupland wood;
The gulls in the red of morning, the fish-hawk'srise and fall,The drift of the fog in moonshine, over the darkcoast-wall.
She saw the face of her mother, she heard the songshe sang;And far off, faintly, slowly, the bell for vespersrang.
By her bed the hard-faced mistress sat, smoothingthe wrinkled sheet,Peering into the face, so helpless, and feeling theice-cold feet.
With a vague remorse atoning for her greed andlong abuse,By care no longer heeded and pity too late for use.
Up the stairs of the garret softly the son of themistress stepped,Leaned over the head-board, covering his face withhis hands, and wept.
Outspake the mother, who watched him sharply,with brow a-frown"What! love you the Papist, the beggar, thecharge of the town?"
Be she Papist or beggar who lies here, I knowand God knowsI love her, and fain would go with her wherevershe goes!
"O mother! that sweet face came pleading, forlove so athirst.You saw but the town-charge; I knew her God'sangel at first."
Shaking her gray head, the mistress hushed downa bitter cry;And awed by the silence and shadow of deathdrawing nigh,
She murmured a psalm of the Bible; but closer the young girl pressed, With the last of her life in her fingers, the cross to her breast.
"My son, come away," cried the mother, her voicecruel grown."She is joined to her idols, like Ephraim; let heralone!"
But he knelt with his hand on her forehead, hislips to her ear,And he called back the soul that was passing"Marguerite, do you hear?"
She paused on the threshold of Heaven; love, pity,surprise,Wistful, tender, lit up for an instant the cloud ofher eyes.
With his heart on his lips he kissed her, but neverher cheek grew red,And the words the living long for he spake in theear of the dead.
And the robins sang in the orchard, where buds toblossoms grew;Of the folded hands and the still face never therobins knew!1871.
THE ROBIN.MY old Welsh neighbor over the wayCrept slowly out in the sun of spring,Pushed from her ears the locks of gray,And listened to hear the robin sing.
Her grandson, playing at marbles, stopped,And, cruel in sport as boys will be,Tossed a stone at the bird, who hoppedFrom bough to bough in the apple-tree.
"Nay!" said the grandmother; "have you not heard,My poor, bad boy! of the fiery pit,And how, drop by drop, this merciful birdCarries the water that quenches it?
"He brings cool dew in his little bill,And lets it fall on the souls of sinYou can see the mark on his red breast stillOf fires that scorch as he drops it in.
"My poor Bron rhuddyn! my breast-burned bird,Singing so sweetly from limb to limb,Very dear to the heart of Our LordIs he who pities the lost like Him!"
"Amen!" I said to the beautiful myth;"Sing, bird of God, in my heart as well:Each good thought is a drop wherewithTo cool and lessen the fires of hell.
"Prayers of love like rain-drops fall,Tears of pity are cooling dew,And dear to the heart of Our Lord are allWho suffer like Him in the good they do! "1871.