Fleurs de lys and Other Poems | Page 3

voice their
cannon to our cannonade replied, As their tattered ensign drifted slowly
shoreward with the tide.
There was one who saw it floating, and within his heart of fire, Beating
in a Frenchman's bosom, rose at once a fierce desire, That the riven flag

thus resting on the broad St. Lawrence tide Should, for years to come,
betoken how France humbled England's pride. As the stag leaps down
the mountain, with the baying hounds in chase, So the hero, swift
descending, sought Cape Diamond's rugged base, And within the water,
whitened by the bullets' deadly hail, Springing, swam towards the
ensign with a stroke that could not fail. From the shore and from the
fortress we looked on with bated breath, For around him closer, closer,
fell the messengers of death, And as nearer, ever nearer, to the floating
flag he drew,
Thicker round his head undaunted still the English
bullets flew. He has reached and seized the trophy. Ah! what cheering
rent the skies, Mingled with deep English curses, as he shoreward
brought his prize! Slowly, slowly, almost sinking, still he struggled to
the land, And we hurried down to meet him, as he reached the welcome
strand. Proudly up the rock we bore him, with the flag that he had won,
And that night the English vessels left us with the setting sun.
PÈRE BROSSE.
He had been with the Indians all the day,
But sat with us at eve,

Chatting and laughing in his genial way,
Till came the hour to leave;

And then he rose, we with him, for we loved
Our good old parish
priest,
Who all his lifetime in our midst had moved
At death-bed
and at feast.
He raised his hand for silence, and each head
Was bowed as though
in prayer,
Expectant of his blessing, but instead
He stood in silence
there.
Thrice he essayed to speak, and thrice in vain,
And then his
voice came back,
Vibrating in a deep, triumphal strain
That it was
wont to lack.
"My children, we must part. My task is done.
God calls me to His rest,

And though my labors seem scarce yet begun,
Surely He knoweth
best.
I have grown old in laboring for Him,
My hair with age is
white,
My footsteps feeble, and my eyesight dim--
But all shall
change to-night.

"When strikes the hour of twelve, my weary soul
On earth shall cease
to dwell,
As sign of which the chapel bell shall toll
Its slow funereal
knell.
Then seek me, if you will, and you shall find
Upon the altar
stair
The prison-house my soul will leave behind,
Kneeling as
though in prayer.
"Seek, then, Père Compain, on the Isle aux Coudres,
Nor fear the
rising gale,
For Heaven will guide you through the angry flood,

And it shall not prevail.
He will be waiting for you on the sands,

Amid the morning gloom,
To be your comrade, and, with kindly
hands
Consign me to my tomb."
He ceased, and left us, as though turned to stone,
All motionless and
still:
And faintly fell his footsteps, as alone
He slowly climbed the
hill.
Then we awoke, and all so wondrous seemed,
His words so
strange at best,
We almost fancied we had slept and dreamed
That
he had been our guest.
We turned unto our merriment anew,
With some kind thoughts for
him;
Yet as the hour of midnight nearer drew,
And waxed the
hearth fire dim,
A silence fell upon us, and in fear
We stopped and
held our breath,
As though more clearly through the gloom to hear

The promised knell of death.
There had been something in his face that night
That thrilled our
hearts with fear,
An undefinable, mysterious light,
Which told us
Heaven was near.
He had a deeper lustre in his eyes,
His smile had
seemed more bright,
Till, looking in his face, all Paradise
Seemed
opened to our sight.
Soon chimed the clock. And scarcely had it ceased,
Than tolled the
chapel bell,
As though for some long-suffering soul released,
Its
slow funereal knell,

And on its ebon wings the rising gale
Swept
landward from the sea,
And mingled with the chapel bell's long wail


Its own sad symphony.
We found him lying lifeless, as he said,
Before the altar, prone,
Nor
laid our sinful hands upon the dead,
But left him there alone,
And
launched our frail canoe upon the tide,
Not marvelling to behold

Before our prow the billows fall aside,
Like the Red Sea of old.
On every hand the screaming waters flung
Their great, white arms on
high,
And over all the thundering storm-clouds hung
And battled in
the sky.
Yet fearless we sailed on, until when day
Broke, panting,
through the night,
The fertile Isle aux Coudres before us lay,
Its
beach with breakers white.
And there, upon that tempest-beaten strand,
Waiting, Père Compain
stood
And beckoned to us with uplifted hand
Across the raging
flood.
No need to tell our errand, for that night
Père Brosse had
sought his cell,
And told him all, then faded from his sight,

Breathing a kind farewell.
L'ORDRE DE BON TEMPS.
When Champlain with his faithful band
Came o'er the stormy wave

To dwell within this lonely land,
Their hearts were blithe as brave;

And Winter, by their mirth beguiled,
Forgot