Fleurs de lys and Other Poems | Page 7

Marie.
NELSON'S APPEAL FOR MAISONNEUVE.
"Silent I have stood and borne it, hoping still from year to year That the
pleading voice of justice you would some day wake to hear. But
beneath the soulless present you have sunk the glorious past, Till I
cannot bear it longer--you must learn the truth at last. Shame upon you,
shameless city, heart of this great land of yours, That the world should
say you care not if your founder's name endures! Shame upon you, that
no statue stands within your greatest square To commemorate the hero
who so often battled there!
Who long years ago sprang lightly from
his pinnace to the beach, And amid the virgin forests, spreading far as
eye could reach, Knelt and prayed, his people with him, while the
prophet-priest foretold
How their growth should be as great as was
the mustard seed's of old.
"Have you ceased to care, already, how that noble little band Toiled,
and fought with man and nature that their sons might rule the land,

Braving winter's cold and famine, summer's hot and stifling breath,
Danger in unnumbered forms; and in each form a cruel death, Slain by
skulking, coward foemen, now one moment in the corn Singing some
sweet Norman ditty, and the next one overborne? Comrades, you have

mothers, sisters, wives whom you would die to save, Think, then, of the
noble ones who claim your tribute to the brave; Tender women, timid
children, crouching at the barricade,
Pallid, trembling, stained with
blood, yet nerved to give the needed aid,
Staunching deadly wounds,
and wiping death-dews from a loved one's brow,
While their fathers,
husbands, brothers fought and won they scarce knew how!
"Think of him among them toiling! hear his simple, trusting prayers!
See him, stern, unyielding, hopeful, with a thousand daily cares,
Sharing his companions' hardships, cheering there and chiding here,
With a head to rule them wisely, and a heart that knew not fear,
Sleeping with his armor on him and his weapons by his bed,
Ready
ever for the foes that, like the shadows, came and fled. See him fighting
in the forest with a host that seeks his blood! Hear him praying to the
Virgin to restrain the rising flood, Vowing that if she would heed him
and preserve the little town, He himself would bear a cross and plant it
on Mount Royal's crown! True crusader, in whose heart there never
dwelt one sordid thought, Guardian of the Virgin's city: this is he you
honor not.
"Of our Queen a stately statue stands upon Victoria Square, In its hand
a wreath of laurel, in that wreath a tiny pair
Nesting year by year
uninjured, heedless of the passing throng, Living symbols of a reign
that guards the weak from every wrong. Loyalty upraised that statue,
and were it the only one
That your city had erected still the deed were
nobly done.
But to honor me, my brothers, one whose blood was
never shed On your soil or for your country, heaps but shame upon my
head, Not because you might not praise me--I may merit your esteem--
But because you place me first where he alone should stand supreme.
Shame upon you, to forget him and remember such as I!
Shame upon
you, if your ears are heedless still to honor's cry!
"True, I tamed a haughty foeman at Trafalgar and the Nile,
But I had
a nation's wealth and numbers at my back the while. His was one long
fight with scarcely seven score to do his will, With a host of open foes
and secret foes, more deadly still; Foes in every bush and hollow, foes

behind his monarch's throne, Stabbing with one hand extended
seemingly to clasp his own. Yet he triumphed, and behold you! now a
country growing fast, With a glorious future breaking through the
darkness of the past, With a host of stout hearts toiling day and night to
make you great, And a glittering roll of heroes worthy of a mighty state.

Yet you cannot he a nation if your children never hear
Aught of
those whose blood has won the land that they should hold most dear.
"Can you wonder that the rains have beaten on my statued form? Can
you marvel that the winter shakes me with its fiercest storm? Ah! not
age it is but shame that makes me look so worn and old, Makes me
hang my head and tremble lest the bitter truth be told. It is murmured
by the maples, it is whispered by the wind,
Till I cannot but imagine
it is heard by all mankind,
How your children, from gay boyhood
until tottering age, behold Gallant Maisonneuve forgotten and less
worthy me extolled.
Oh! my comrades, if you love me, lighten the
disgrace I feel, Lend your ready hands to aid me, bend your hearts to
my appeal: