Rabbi Ben Horad was a learned man,Of gentle ways, who taught a pious flock,So small, at morn and eve the sexton ranFrom door to door, and with a triple knockSummoned the faithful who were dwelling thereTo kneel and seek the Lord in humble prayer.
The sexton had a daughter, than whom dreamedMan fairer none, and from whose great, dark eyesAn angel soul in spotless radiance beamed,As shines a star from out the midnight skies.She loved the Rabbi with a maid's first love:He worshipped her well nigh like God above.
Whene'er by mortal sickness sorely pressedOne of the little congregation lay,The sexton's mallet to the flock expressedWith its sad knock his woe, and bade them pray;Arid oft their intercession with the LordPrevailed, and He the invalid restored.
Late, late one night the sexton sought to sleep,But ere he slept himthought he heard a soundThat caused his heart to throb, his flesh to creep—The ghostly knocking of his daily round—And, trembling, to his child he cried in fear:"Some one is dying, daughter, dost thou hear?"
She heard the sound and answered with a cry,Love teaching her: "Oh! it is he, mine own:Rabbi Ben Horad is about to die—Oh! father, haste! life may not yet have flown;Bid all our people pray, that God may hear,And in His mercy turn a willing ear."
All through the night the faithful people prayedThat their beloved Rabbi still might live;And by their prayers the hand of death was stayed,Yet could their prayers no greater favor give;And so he lingered, while she watched the strife,With sinking heart, waged between death and life.
Then, as a last resort, from door to doorThe young men went, that all who wished might giveSome space of time out of their own life's store,That yielded to the Rabbi he might live.Some gave a year, a month a week, a day,But wheresoe'r they went none said them nay.
At last they sought the maid and gravely asked:"What wilt thou give, O maiden?" and she cried—By his sad plight her deathless love unmasked—"Oh! gladly for his sake I would have died:Take all my life and give it unto him."They wrote, but saw not, for their eyes were dim.
And lo! the Rabbi lived; but ere the earthHad thrice upturned its face to greet the sun,Hushed was the little congregation's mirth,For the sweet maiden's life its course had run;And, decked with flowers, they bore her to her grave,He sobbing by whom she had died to save.
Chastened by grief, Ben Horad holier grew,And, uncomplaining, toiled from day to day.His sad, sweet smile his loving flock well knew,His kindly voice their sorrows charmed away;Yet, though he bowed before his Master's will,His heart was sad, for he was human still.
By night or day, wherever he might stray,Through bustling city streets or lonely lane,One form he ever saw—a maiden gay;One voice he heard—a soft, melodious strain:And oh! the loneliness, to see and hear,Yet lack the tender touch of one so dear!
Long as he read into the silent night,The winking stars soft peeping in his room,While at his hand the dreamy, lambent lightJust lit his book and left all else in gloom.His study walls evanished, and in mistHe saw the maid whose dead lips once he kissed:
Yet dead no more, but his dear spirit wife.And still in heaven she sang the same glad strainShe would have sung on earth had not her lifeBeen given to him that he might live again,And as she sang he wept: "Ah! woe is me,Who robbed her of her sweet futurity."
There came a day when on the Rabbi's earsFell the low moans of one in mortal pain.Slowly they died, as though dissolved in tears,While a weak infant's wail took up the strain.Sadly Ben Horad smiled, and raised his head:"She has been spared that agony," he said.
Then all his sorrow died; but not for long,For soon again the spirit voice he heard,Crooning all day a little cradle song,With happiness and love in every word.And as she sang he wept: "Ah! woe is me,Who robbed her of her sweet maternity."
Once more he heard her moans, and once againHeard the young mother crooning o'er her child.And then came no more sorrow in the strain,Which had there been might him have reconciled,But as she sang he wept: "Ah! woe is me,Who robbed her of her sweet maturity."
And still he read the Talmud, day and night,And still the years slipped by on noiseless wing.Then one day as he studied, lo! the sprite,Till then long silent, recommenced to sing.He sighed: "To-day she feasts her eldest boy,And I have robbed my darling of this joy."
Again was silence, and again there fellUpon the Rabbi's ears the sweet refrain,With the glad tumult of a marriage bell,Now rising like a bird, now low again."Her daughter weds," he said. "Ah! woe is me,Who robbed her of her sweet maternity."
Year after year he lived, and children diedOf age, whom he had dandled, until he,Worn with his grief, for death's oblivion sighed;But still he heard the same sweet melody,And could not die until the singing ceased,For by her life had his life been increased.
Long flashed the lamp upon the sacred page,Long peeped the star-worlds through the orioled pane,Long nightly sat the white-haired, saintly sageAnd listened till at last the happy strainDied into discord. "God be thanked," he said—Next day they found him, smiling now—but dead.
In Egypt Rhodope was born,And lived afar from king and court;No jewels did the maid adorn;She crowned herself with flowers in sport.
Her hair was like a summer night,Her eyes like stars that twinkle low,Her voice like soft winds in their flight,When through the tremulous leaves they blow.
She dwelt beside the sacred Nile,And in its waters every day,With but the sun to gaze and smile,Like any nymph was wont to play.
While in the limpid stream she playedOne day, an eagle cleft the blue,And, hovering o'er the sporting maid,Upon the bank espied her shoe.
Loth to forget so sweet a sight,And lest his memory should grow dim,He sought the earth with sudden flight,And bore the shoe aloft with him.
He bore it far, and let it fallIn the king's palace, where next daySo lily-frail, so strangely small,Within the palace-court it lay.
The king was walking, wrapped in thought,Throughout his palace, up and down:Him had his councillors besought,With some fair maid to share his crown,
And he had searched the wide world throughTo find a princess he could love,Yet all in vain he sought to woo,His heart there was not one could move.
Into the palace-court he went,Still wondering whom to make his bride,And as he strolled, eyes earthward bent,The wondrous tiny shoe he spied.
As leaps the sun to tropic skies,So sprang his heart unto its choice,Love sparkled brightly in his eyes,And thrilled triumphant in his voice.
"You bid me wed, I could not do,For lack of love, your bidding, Sirs.But find the maid who wore this shoe,And I will make my kingdom hers."
They searched the palace from the groundUp to the towers, but in vain;Nowhere was maiden to be foundTo own the shoe and share the reign.
Then came a lad, who told in aweHow just at dawn an eagle flewAbove the town, and from its clawDropped to the palace-yard the shoe.
The wise men stroked their beards, and said:"The gods have surely done this thing,That our beloved lord may wedA maiden meet for such a king."
Then far and wide the heralds rodeTo find the king's God-chosen bride;They chanced on Rhodope's abode,The overflowing Nile beside.
She stood before the heralds twain,She fitted on the tiny shoe,And claimed it for her own again,And not till then their errand knew.
The richest robes they offered her,But she refused them: "If my kingIn my coarse garb, will deem me fair,Then only will I take his ring."
Before the king the maid they brought,And at his feet she bent the knee;He gently raised her: "Nay, kneel not,O sweetheart! I should kneel to thee,
"Fair as a poet's dream thou art,Purer than lilies—Oh! mine own,Since thou has won thy monarch's heart,'Tis meet that thou shouldst share his throne."
The wise men stroked their beards and said:"The gods have surely done this thing."Then Rhodope the fair was wed,And ruled all Egypt with the king.
You love the sun and the languid breezeThat gently kisses the rosebud's lips,And delight to seeHow the dainty bee,Stilling his gauze-winged melodiesInto the lily's chalice dips.
I love the wind that unceasing roars,While cringe the trees from its wrath in vain,And the lightning-flash,And the thunder-crash,And skies, from whose Erebus depths outpoursIn slanting drifts the autumnal rain.
You sigh to find that the time is hereWhen leaves are falling from bush and tree;When the flowerets sweetDie beneath our feet,And feebly totters the dying yearInto the mists of eternity.
To me the autumn is never drear,It bears the glory of hopes fulfilled.Though the flowers be dead,There are seeds instead,That, with the spring of the dawning year,With life will find all their being thrilled.
You tread the wood, and the wind beholdTear down the leaves from the crackling boughTill they make a pall,As they thickly fall,To hide dead flowers. The air seems cold,No summer gladdens the forest now.
I tread the maze of the changing wood,And though no light through the maples plays,Yet they glow each one,Like a rose-red sun,And drop their leaves, like a glittering floodOf warm sunbeams, in the woodland ways.
Poor human heart, in the year of lifeAll seasons are, and it rests with theeTo enjoy them all,Or to drape a pallO'er withered hopes, and to be at strifeWith things that are, and no brightness see.
Poor, lone Carlotta, Mexico's mad Queen,Babbling of him, amid thy vacant halls,Whose ears have long been heedless of thy calls;Sad monument of pomp that once hath been,Thy staring eyes mark ever the same sceneOf levelled muskets, and a corpse which falls,Dabbled in blood, beneath the city walls—Though twenty years have rolled their tides between.
Not of this world thy vengeance! They have passed,Traitor and victim, to the shadow-land.Not of this world thy joy; but, when at lastReason returns in Paradise, its handShall join the shattered links of thought again,Save those that form this interval of pain.
Mad fools! To think that men can beMade equal all, when GodMade one well nigh divinityAnd one a soulless clod.
Nowhere in Nature can we findThings equal, save in death,One man must rule with thoughtful mind,One serve with panting breath.
The maples spread their foliage greenTo shade the grass below,Hills rise the lowly vales betweenOr streams would never flow.
A million creatures find a homeWithin a droplet's sphere,And giants through the woodlands roamWhile quakes the land in fear.
A tiny fall in music breaksAgainst the mountain's base,While roars an avalanche and shakesThe whole world in its race.
One must be weak and one be strong,One huge, another small,To help this teeming world along,And make a home for all.
Equality is death, not life,In Nature and with man,And progress is but upward strifeWith some one in the van.
You named it better than you knewWho called yon little town Lachine,Though through the lapse of years betweenThe then and now, men jeered at you.
You thought by it to find a way,Through voiceful woods and shimmering lakes,To where the calm Pacific breaksOn weedy ledges at Cathay.
In fancy you beheld yon tideUpbear a thousand argosies,Whose spicy odors filled the breeze,And floated far on every side.
'Twas but a wish-born dream, men said,And sneered that you were so unwise.Blind scoffers! Would that they could riseA few short moments from the dead,
To see how, through the power of man,Your vision is no more a dream,And learn that this majestic streamIs now the highway to Japan!
From year to year, with dauntless strides,O'er fertile plains your sons have pressed,Portaging from the East to West,Between the two great ocean tides.
And in their trail they drew a chainOf steel across the virgin land,Uniting with this slender bandThe eastern and the western main.
Where once the bison roamed, and wokeThe heavens with his thunderous tread,The tireless engine speeds instead,And tosses high its plumes of smoke.
Like spider in a web, it creepsOn filmy bridge, o'er sparkling streams,Or chasms where the sunlight gleamsPart-way, and dies amid the deeps.
It scales the rugged, snow-clad peaks,And looks afar on East and West,Then, like an eagle from its nest,Darts down, and through the valley shrieks.
It was not formed by Nature's hand,This sun-ward highway to Japan;O'er mountain-range and prairie, manHas forced the path his genius planned.
And Commerce, universal king,Has followed with unnumbered needs,And scatters everywhere the seedsOf towns that in a night upspring.
In tumult strange the air abounds,The whirr of birds is dying out,The swart mechanic's lusty shoutAmid the clang of iron sounds.
And streams, that once unbroken ran,Now on their outspread scroll reveal,Written by many a sliding keel,The lordly signature of man.
We are scarcely one to seven,But our cause is just;Help us in our trial, heaven!Keep the ford we must.
Swiftly through the reeds and rushesPours the Outarde flood,Turned by sunset's rosy flushesTo a stream of blood.
Sprinkled with the hues of slaughter,Wave the forest trees.Gently o'er the sparkling water,In the autumn breeze.
Strange that Nature should remind usOf the coming fight!Let it come—it will but find usBattling for the right.
Never shall the land that gave usBirth be held a thrall:Ere the Stars and Stripes enslave us,Death shall have us all!
Quickly in this silent dingleRaise theabatis,Near where Outarde waters mingleWith the Chateauguay.
Hasten, Night, across the meadows,Kiss the streams to sleep,Wrap us in thy cloak of shadows,Bid the stars not peep.
Night has passed; the birds, awaking,Greet the dawning day.Wherefore are our foemen makingSuch a long delay?
Hark! at last they come; now, steady!Wait the signal gun.When I fire, fire you. Now! ready?Fire! Ah! lads, well done!
Like a vaulted wave that shattersOn a rocky coast,And in mist and salt spray scatters,Breaks the mighty host.
Like the wave, that swift returningBursts upon the strand,Falls the foe, with hatred burning,On our little band.
We are scarcely one to seven,But our cause is just;Help us in our trial, heaven!Keep the ford we must.
Fall the shot-clipped leaves about usLike the summer rain;Charge the bitter foes to rout usEver and again.
Quarter never asked nor given,Still we beat them back,Though our slender ranks are rivenWith each fierce attack.
Long the fearful battle rages,Death his harvest reaps—He will live in history's pagesIn the grave who sleeps.
Round us, stronger, ever stronger,Sweeps the hostile horde;If the strife continue longer,We shall lose the ford.
We are scarcely one to seven,But our cause is just;Help us in our trial, heaven!Keep the ford wemust!
Hope! The fox, when worn with running,Subtlety must use:Let us strive to win by cunningWhat by force we lose.
Bugler, seek the forest borderWhence our friends should come;For attack, sound loud the order,Beat upon the drum.
So our foes may think in errorThat our friends are nigh,And, disturbed by sudden terror,From the conflict fly.
Through the wood the bugler dashes,Far beyond the fray—While the deadly musket flashesPoint him on his way,
Faintly o'er the din of battle,On the ear there fallFrom afar a drum's sharp rattle,And a bugle call.
Through the forest, drawing nearer,Ring the bugle notes,And the drum-beat, quicker, clearer,On the calm air floats.
Cheer! my lads, and cease from firing,Sheathe the blood-stained sword,For our foemen are retiring—We have kept the ford.
The noble lion groweth old,The weight of years his eyesight dims,And strength deserts his mighty limbs,His once warm blood runs slow and cold.
The sunlight of another daySlants through the jungle's tangled mass;He marks the shadows, but, alas!Sees not the sun among them play.
His regal head lies buried deepBetween his paws—his reign is o'er—His great voice stirs the world no more,And round his lair the jackals creep.
They scent their prey, and, with the joyOf meaner natures, far and wideFrom deep obscurity they glide,The dying monarch to annoy.
With naked fangs they circle round,And fiercely snarl, until once moreThe thicket quivers at his roar,And all their paltry yelps are drowned.
The woodland with his voice is thrilled,Though hope abandoned mars the strain;But echoes cease, and then againWith jackal barks the air is filled.
Though dying, he is royal yet—Even now, earth doth not hold his peer:Bark, jackals, bark! ere dies the yearThe world your tumult will forget.
There is a spot, far from the world's uproar,Amid great mountains,Where softly sleeps a lake, to whose still shoreSteal silvery fountains,That hide beneath the leafy underwood,And blend their voices with the solitude.
Save where the beaver-meadow's olive sheenIn sunlight glimmers,On every side, a mass of waving green,The forest shimmersAnd oft re-echoes with the black bear's tread,That silences the song birds overhead.
Here thickly droops the moss from patriarch trees,And loons fly wailing.Here king-birds' screams come hoarsely down the breezeAnd hawks are sailingAbove the trees. Here Nature dwells alone,Of man unknowing, and to man unknown.
Smiling, she rises when the morning air,The dawn just breaking,Bids the still woodlands for the day prepare,And Life, awaking,Welcomes the Sun, whose bride, the Morn, is kissedAnd, blushing, lays aside her veil of mist.
Here Nature with each passing hour revealsPeculiar graces:At noonday she grows languid, and then stealsTo shady places,And revels in their coolness, at her feetA stream, that fills with music her retreat.
At eve she comes, and, blushing like a maid,Unrobes in shadows,Bathes in the lake, and wanders through the gladeAnd o'er the meadows.From her dank locks, wherever she doth pass,The diamond dew-drops dripping to the grass.
And then she sleeps; when o'er the lake's calm tideThe Moon comes stealing,And draws from her the veil of night aside,Her charms revealing,While silent stars keep ceaseless watch above,And all the earth breathes peace and rest and love.
A girlish voice like a silver bellRang over the sparkling tide,"A race! a race!"She was under the trees by the river-side,Down from whose boughs dark shadows fell,And hid her face.
Four skiffs are out on the moonlit stream,And their oars like bars of silver gleam,As they dip and flash and kiss the river,As swallows do, till the moonbeams quiver.Then the ripples die,And the girlish cryFloats gaily again to the summer sky.
"Ready? Go!"As the arrow springs from the straightened bow,The skiffs dart off for the distant goal:The oars are bent like blades of steel,And the hissing waters, cleft in twain,Curl away astern in a feathery train,While girlish laughter, peal on peal,Rings over the river and over the shore,And from the island the echoes roll.We hear the mysterious voice again."We have won! we have won!Will you race once more?"
The water drips in golden rainFrom the blade of the resting oar,Again we take, our place, and againThat clear voice wakes the shore:"Go!" And we bend to our oars once more,And banks fly past, till the gleaming meadowsGive place to the woods and their gloomy shadows.
Our skiff is steered by skilful hands,Its rowers' arms are strong,But muscles are not iron bandsTo bear such conflict long.And hearts beat hard, and breath comes fast,And cheeks too hotly burn,Before the welcome goal is passed—The rest two lengths astern.
The evening air is growing chill,The moon is sinking low:The race is ours—across the waveWe call, but nothing answers saveThe winds that gently blow,"Come race again." But all in vain—The silvery voice is still.
"What do you gather?" the maiden said,Shaking her sunlit curls at me—"See, these flowers I plucked are dead,Ah! misery."
"What do you gather?" the miser said,Clinking his gold, as he spoke to me—"I cannot sleep at night for dreadOf thieves," said he.
"What do you gather?" the dreamer said,"I dream dreams of what is to be;Daylight comes, and my dreams are fled,Ah! woe is me."
"What do you gather?" the young man said—"I seek fame for eternity,Toiling on while the world's abed,Alone," said he.
"What do I gather?" I laughing said,"Nothing at all save memory,Sweet as flowers, but never dead,Like thine, Rosie."
"I have no fear of thieves," I said,"Daylight kills not my reverie,Fame will find I am snug abed,That comes to me."
"The past is my treasure, friends," I said,"Time but adds to my treasury,Happy moments are never fledAway from me."
"All one needs to be rich," I said,"Is to live that his past shall beSweet in his thoughts, as a wild rose red,Eternally."
We gathered, a jovial party,Together on New Year's eve,To welcome the coming monarchAnd to see the old one leave,
We chatted around the fireside,And wondered what time would bring:We had not a tear for the parting year,But longed for the coming king.
For youth reaches ever forward,And drops from its eager claspThe realized gifts of fortune,Some phantom of hope to grasp.
Soon a maiden spoke of the custom,Now lapsed in this age of prose,To open the door for the New YearThe instant the Old Year goes;
Then, leaving the door wide open,To stand in the silent streetAnd, with a generous "welcome,"The entering guest to greet.
It suited our youthful fancy,And, when the glad chimes began,From our cosy nook by the firesideDown into the street we ran.
And, far and near, we all could hearThe great bells ringing out the year,And, as they tolled, the music rolled,Hoarse-sounding, over town and wold.
"The year is dead,"Gros Bourdonsaid,The clanging echoes quivering fled,And, far and wide, on every side,The bells to one another cried.
The mountain woke, and from its cloakShook off the echoes, stroke for stroke.Then silence fell on hill and bell,And echoes ceased to sink and swell.
Standing beside the door wide open thrown,Her voice more musical than any bird's,And with a winning sweetness all its own,Our Queen thus winged her joyous thoughts with words:
"Ring out, bells, ring! Sing, mountain, sing!The king is dead, long live the king!Now fast, now slow; now loud, now low,Send out your chimes across the snow.
"Old Year, adieu; welcome the New,The door stands open here for you.Come in, come in, the bells beginTo falter in their merry din."
Then, as the great bells ceased to swing, two brokeA silver coin, for luck in days to come,And though no tender words of love they spoke,Yet hearts speak best when most the lips are dumb.
Baby sits upon the floor,Baby's scarce a twelvemonth old;Baby laughs, andgoo-gooso'erMemories how a babe of yoreHumbled Glooskap bold.
Glooskap was a man of might,Skilled in magic, huge of limb;Giant, wizard, goblin, sprite,Ghost, witch, devil, imp of night,All had fled from him.
Then he questioned: "Can there beFurther labors to be done?Breathes there one to equal me,Who before me will not flee?"Quoth a squaw: "Yes, one."
"Name him," angry Glooskap cried,"Baby," said she, "And be warned—If you meddle, woe betideAll your glory, all your pride!For you will be scorned,"
Baby sat upon the ground,Harming none, and sucked his thumb,Gazing with a look profoundUpon Glooskap and around,Solon-wise, Sphinx-dumb.
Glooskap never married was,So he thought, like all his kind,That he knew the nursery lawsWholly, and with ease could causeService prompt and blind.
Sweetly, the magician smiled,Like the summer sun, and said:"Hither, Baby." But the child,By the sweet smile unbeguiled,Only shook his head.
Like a bird among the trees,Singing, Glooskap spake once more:Baby listened to the glees,Sucked his thumb, and sat at easeStill upon the floor.
Thundering, the magician spoke:"Hither, Baby, I command!"Baby stirred not, only brokeInto wailings that awokeAll the desert land.
Mystic song and magic spell,Fit to raise the very dead,Fit to rule the imps that dwellIn the deepest depths of Hell,Glooskap sang and said.
All was vain. Upon the floorBaby sat, and heard each lay,Listened close, and called for more,When each mystic song was o'er,But did not obey.
Then the baffled warrior wept;And the baby in delight,Sitting where a sunbeam slept,Laughed and crowed, and crowing kept,Till his foe took flight.
Life grows not more nor less; it is but forceAnd only changes;Expended here, it takes another course,And ever rangesThroughout this circling universe of ours,Now quickening man, now in his grave-grown flowers.
Yet dwells life not alone in man and beastAnd budding flowers.It lurks in all things, from the very leastGleam in dark bowersOf the great sun, through stones, and sea, and air,Up to ourselves, in Nature everywhere.
Life differs from the soul. This is beyondThe realms of science;God and mankind it joins in closest bond,And bids defianceTo Death and Change. By faith alone confessed,It dwells within our bodies as a guest.
The germ of life sleeps in the aged hillsAnd stately rivets,And wakes into the life our hearts that thrillsAnd in leaves quivers.The universe is one great reservoirFrom which man draws of thinking life his store.
And, therefore, is it that the weary brain,That seeks communionWith Nature in her haunts, finds strength againIn that close union:She is our mother and the mind distressedDrinks a new draught of life at her loved breast.
Come Winter, merry Winter,Rejoice while yet you may,For nearer, ever nearer,Fair Summer draws each day,And soon the tiny snowdropsShall waken from their sleep,And, mossy banks from under,The modest violets peep.
The apple trees shall scatterTheir buds at Summer's feet,And with their fragrant odorsMake every zephyr sweet;While Nature, of wild roses,And lilies frail and white,Shall make a wreath for Summer,And crown her with delight.
Forth from the smiling heavensShall fall the gentle rain,The earth shall feel her presenceAnd welcome her with grain;The birds shall come and twitter,And build amid the boughs,So Winter, merry Winter,While yet you may, carouse.
We love you, merry Winter,You and the joys you bring,And loud and long your praisesThroughout the world we sing;But Summer, gentle Summer,Comes shyly through the glade,And draws all hearts to love her,So fair is she arrayed.
We love the merry sleighing,The swinging snowshoe tramp,While in the clear, cold heavensThe calm moon holds her lamp,
We love the breathless coasting.The skating and the gamesPlayed amid shouts of laughter,Around the hearth-fire flames.
But Summer, winsome Summer,Holds greater stores of bliss,When all the land awakens,And blossoms at her kiss;We soon shall feel her presence,And breathe her perfumed breath,Then, Winter, dear old Winter,We will not mourn your death.
So he is dead. A strange, sad story clingsAbout the memory of this mindless man;A tale that strips war's tinsel off, and bringsIts horrors out, as only history can.
Within a peaceful town he dwelt in youth,His sister's hero and his mother's pride—The soul of honor, the abode of truth,Beloved and reverenced on every side.
He had a sweetheart, lovely as the day,A gentle maid, who knew not half his worth,Who loved the sunshine, and who shrank awayFrom sorrow, and forever followed mirth.
They were but young, and hope's mirage uprearedIn their warm hearts its rosy palaces;They deemed them real, and longing, only fearedLife was too short for all the promised bliss.
And then came war, blood-spattered, cruel as hell,And clamored with its iron voice for life—Mother and sister and the wedding-bell.The hero left, and hastened to the strife.
In vain he struck for liberty, and fellA captive, in his earliest affray;Then, threatening death, fierce Haynau bade him tellWhere and how strong the patriot forces lay.
"I will not tell," he cried, with eyes aflame,"Do what thou wilt with me, I will not bringDoom to my land, and soil my honored name:From these sealed lips thou shalt no secret wring."
His captor only laughed. "He croweth well,Go, bring his mother and his sister here,And they shall die, if he refuse to tell!"The hero answered not, but paled with fear.
The brutal soldiers to the brutish courtDragged the weak women, and they stood o'er-awed,Each to the other clinging for support,And praying in her misery to God.
The fell decree the shrinking creatures heard,And long in vain essayed to make reply,For their weak speech could find no fitting wordTo bear the burden of their agony.
Tears came at last. The brutal Haynau smiled,But all too soon. Weeping, the mother said:"Be not thy country's, traitor, oh! my child!Too old am I the loss of life to dread."
Then spake the sister: "Brother mine, be brave!Life hath no charms, if with dishonor bought;Think not of us, our bleeding country save—Life is so short at best, death matters naught."
The hero made no answer, but he droveHis nails into his palms, and choked for breath;His captor bade the soldiery removeThe noble women—and they went to death.
"He hath a sweetheart," Haynau said again:"Go, bring her hither;" and they brought her there,Weeping with fear, and wailing low with pain,Amid the golden ringlets of her hair.
Then from the earth she sprang, frenzied with fear,Into her lover's arms, and kissed his cheek,And strok'd his hair, and called him "love" and "dear,"And prayed him for her sake to yield and speak.
He thrust her from him, clasped her yielding formIn his lithe arms again, and then once moreRepulsed her gently, and the deadly stormThat raged within him smote him to the floor.
Groping, he rose and spoke. None knew his voice:It sounded as though coming from a tomb."Oh! darling, it must be—I have no choice—Thou would'st not have me seal my country's doom?"
Haynau made sign. "Away with her," he cried.They seized their prey, but life to her was sweet,And, bounding from the soldiers at her side,Screaming she crouched, and clasped her lover's feet.
"Oh! for the love you bear me, save my life!Tell what he asks, and we will fly this placeInto some unknown land, where all this strifeShall be forgotten in love's sweet embrace."
He made no answer save by bending low,And kissing her damp brow. They raised their prize,And bore her to the door, as pale as snow,With all her soul outwelling from her eyes.
But here she turned, calm in her death despair,And in a voice that trembled with its hate,"My dying curse be on you everywhere,False love," she cried, "who send me to my fate."
There was a silence, then a fusiladeOf musketry, a woman's scream and moan,Then silence. That was all, and in the shadeOf night the hero laughed. Reason had flown.
Sweet is the maiden's kiss that tellsThe secret of her heart;Holy the wife's—yet in them dwellsOf earthliness a part;
While in a little child's warm kissIs naught but heaven above,So sweet it is, so pure it is,So full of faith and love.
'Tis like a violet in MayThat knows nor fear nor harm,But cheers the wanderer on his wayWith its unconscious charm.
'Tis like a bird that carols free,And thinks not of reward,But gives the world its melodyBecause it is a bard.
Of double depth they made her grave,And covered it with massive stone,And there, where silvery birches wave,They left her sleeping all alone.
These words were chiselled on her tomb:"This grave, bought for eternity,Even to and through the day of doom,And ever, shall unopened be."
For years the passing stranger sawThe epitaph of Caroline,And wondered, with a shuddering awe,That it could dare the wrath divine.
Time is of God. He does not needTo work his purpose in an hour:Years came and went, and then a seed,Borne downwards by a summer shower,
Fell gently on the scanty earth.Among the heaped-up stones that lay,And soon a tiny birch had birth,And grew in stature day by day.
The sun, the shower, the passing wind,All helped the youthful tree to grow;Its little roots ran far to findSubsistence in the depths below.
Years passed, until at last the treeSundered the stones, and made the graveYawn wide, that hoped eternallyThe ravages of Time to brave.
Vain was the exercise of skillTo seal the grave of Caroline;And vain is every human willThat strives to break the law divine.
The daughter of a hundred earls,No jewels has with mine to mate,Though she may wear in flawless pearlsThe ransom of a mighty state.
Hers glitter for the world to see,But chill the breast where they recline:My jewels warmly compass me,And all their brilliancy is mine.
My diamonds are my baby's eyes,His lips, sole rubies that I crave:They came to me from Paradise,And not through labors of the slave.
My darling's arms my necklace make,'Tis Love that links his feeble hands,And Death, alone, that chain can break,And rob me of those priceless bands.
The incident described in these verses took place during the unsuccessful siege of Quebec by Admiral Sir William Phipps, in 1690. Admiral Phipps, after capturing Port Royal, now Annapolis, Nova Scotia, sailed up the St. Lawrence, in October, arriving at Quebec on the 5th. Frontenac, then Governor of New France, was taken almost by surprise, yet, when summoned to surrender, he haughtily refused to do so, using the words attributed to him in the ballad. Phipps was beaten off, leaving with the French the cannon of his troops and this flag, which had been shot away, and which was picked up by a Canadian, who swam out after it. A medal was struck in France, and a church erected in Quebec, in honor of this victory.
A full account of this pious legend will be found in Mr. J. Lemoine'sChronicles of the St. Lawrence, pages 242, 243, and 244. Father de La Brosse was, at the time of his death, a priest at Tadousac, at the mouth of the Saguenay, and about seventy miles below the Isle aux Coudres, where he celebrated the first mass, in 1765. He died at midnight, on the 11th April, 1782, and, so says the legend, his death was preceded and followed by miraculous occurrences. He is said to have foretold it, and to have bidden his people seek Père Compain on the Isle aux Coudres, and bring him to perform the funeral offices. There would be a storm, which they were not to heed, for he guaranteed them against harm, and they were to find Père Compain awaiting them. All came true: Père Brosse was found dead at midnight with his head on the altar of his chapel; the men set out, and though the waves rolled mountains high on every side, there was peace where their canoe floated. They found Père Compain awaiting them, for he had been supernaturally informed of his colleague's death, and he went with them to Tadousac. All the bells of the missions where Père Brosse had labored are said to have been rung without hands that night.
This company ofBon Vivantswas formed in 1606, during the sojourn of Champlain and de Poutrincourt at Port Royal. An account of its organization and doings will be found in Parkman'sChamplain and His Associates, Chapter iv.
This poem is aresuméof the life of him whom Parkman calls "The Æneas of a destined people." "Yon fair town" alludes to Quebec, which Champlain founded July 3rd, 1608. His defiance of Admiral Kirkt took place in 1628, and was successful for a season, but a second summons from Kirkt next summer led to the first surrender of Canada to England. Champlain died on Christmas Day, 1635, after twenty-seven years of labor for the country in which his name can never be forgotten.
In the opening paragraphs of the third chapter of Parkman'sChamplain and His Associates, will be found an account, of which these verses are little more than a paraphrase. When de Monts was commissioned to settle New France, the Roman Catholic clergy insisted that they be given charge of the souls of the heathen in the new land. De Monts was, himself, a Huguenot, and brought his own ministers with him, so that the ship that sailed to Acadia in 1604 bore with it clergy of both sects. This was the cause of ceaseless quarrels. "I have seen ourcuréand the minister," says Champlain, "fall to with their fists on questions of faith. I cannot say which had the more pluck, or which hit the harder; but I know the minister complained to the Sieur de Monts that he had been beaten." Sagard, the Franciscan friar, gives an account of the death of two of the disputants and of their burial in one grave. I have taken the liberty of making them the central figures of the dispute, though, actually, they were subordinates.
Pilot was one of a number of dogs sent from France to Montreal shortly after its foundation, in order to assist the brave colonists in their warfare with the savages. She and her offspring were invaluable in detecting ambuscades. An account of her useful life will be found in Parkman'sJesuits in North America, chap. xviii.
Although one legend, and, perhaps, the best substantiated one, asserts that Roberval was assassinated in Paris, there is another to the effect that, fired by the recitals of Cartier of untold wealth to be found in the Saguenay district, he sailed up the river of that name, and was never heard of again. This legend will be found in theIllustrated History of Canada.
The date of this letter would be about 1670. From 1665 to 1673, bachelors in Canada underwent a martyrdom of great severity, and Jules' fear lest he find himself married in spite of himself is hardly an exaggeration. From 1665 to 1673, about one thousand girls were sent out from France to find husbands in Canada. Each couple married was given an ox, a cow, a pair of swine, a pair of fowls, two barrels of salted meat, and eleven crowns in money. Girls under sixteen and youths under twenty were given twenty livres when they married, and were encouraged to marry at fourteen and eighteen respectively. To such an extent was this rage for marriage carried that, it is said, a widow was married before her first husband's body had been consigned to the grave. Large bounties were paid to parents having from ten to fifteen children, and the slightest sign of courtship between the unmarried officers and ladies of Quebec and Montreal, was chronicled in official documents and transmitted to France. For further particulars, the reader is referred to Parkman'sThe Old Regime in Canada, chapter xiii.
The two villages referred to are Hochelaga and Ville Marie, now Montreal. The latter place was founded by Maisonneuve in 1642. In Sir William Dawson'sFossil Menis a picture of Hochelaga as seen by Cartier, with an oak tree near it. This oak is sketched from one in the McGill University grounds, and it needs but a little stretch of the imagination to consider them identical, though actually this is not so. The poem traces the history of Montreal from its foundation up to the present time. Jacques Cartier's visit was made in October, 1535, when he was well received by the Hochelagans. When Champlain came, in 1611, Hochelaga had disappeared. The reference to the flood occurs again in "Nelson's Appeal for Maisonneuve." The incident took place in 1642, and Maisonneuve actually fulfilled his vow and bore a heavy cross to the mountain top, where it was planted. Dollard, with seventeen Frenchmen and fifty Indians, by heroic self-sacrifice, in 1660, saved Canada from destruction by the Iroquois. Vaudreuil surrendered Canada to the English on September 8th, 1760. He had been driven to Montreal, and was surrounded by 17,000 men, under General Amherst. The Americans took Montreal in 1775, and were defeated at Chateauguay, October 26th, 1813, and at Chrysler's Farm, November 11th, of the same year. In both cases, the Canadians were greatly outnumbered.
This is supposed to be spoken by Horatio, Lord Nelson, whose statue, standing on Jacques Cartier Square, by the magnificent river St. Lawrence, is, with the exception of the bronze image of our Queen, the only one in the city of Montreal. In five years, Montreal will see its 250th anniversary. Shall it be said that we have forgotten its founder, when that day comes? The pages of Parkman may again be referred to for an explanation of any points in this poem.The Jesuits in North America, chapter xv., contains a long account of the foundation of Montreal, and subsequent pages chronicle the life of Maisonneuve.
This is a free paraphrase of a prose tale by Israel G. Owen.
Misled by the information given him by the Indians, and also by the size of the St. Lawrence, Jacques Cartier [La Salle?] gave to Lachine its present name, thinking that by it a western passage to China was possible. The Canadian Pacific Railway has furnished this passage by land, and now a large portion of China's merchandise comes overland to Montreal for shipment to Europe.
During the Anglo-American War of 1812, the brunt of the fighting fell upon the Canadian Volunteers, and one of their most notable exploits is that which I have striven to portray in this poem. Hearing of the advance of the Americans, De Salaberry, with 400 Voltigeurs, entrenched himself at the junction of the Chateauguay and Outarde rivers, not many miles from Montreal. On the morning of October the 26th, this little band of heroes was attacked by 3,500 Americans. In spite of the most determined bravery, the Canadians would have been overcome by sheer force of numbers, but for the ruse described in the poem, assisted by a rapid discharge of musketry from new ambuscades. The Americans withdrew, and Lower Canada was saved.
This poem was written shortly after the appearance of "Sixty YearsAfter," by Lord Tennyson, and while the critics on both sides of theAtlantic were, for the most part, tearing him to pieces.
Glooskap is to the Penobscot Indians much what Hiawatha was to those of Longfellow's wonderful poem. He is supposed to be making arrows in a long hut, waiting for the time, when, like Barbarossa, he shall come to save his countrymen. The only time that he was defeated was when he strove to conquer a baby. The story will be found in C. G. Leland'sAlgonquin Legends.
This is a true episode of the Hungarian rebellion of 1849. The young man's name was Ferenz Renyi, and he died recently in the asylum at Buda-Pesth. Haynau was attacked in Barclay's Brewery, London, in 1850, for cruelties of this kind, and barely escaped with his life from the infuriated employes.
End of Project Gutenberg's Fleurs de lys and other poems, by Arthur Weir