Fleurs de lys and Other Poems | Page 3

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 his sterner mood,?As by the prattling of a child?A churl may be subdued.
Among the company there came?A dozen youths of rank,?Who in their eager search for fame?From no adventure shrank;?But, with the lightness of their race?That hardship laughs to scorn,?Pursued the pleasures of the chase?'Till night from early morn.
And soon their leader, full of mirth.?And politic withal--?Well knowing that no spot on earth?Could hold them long in thrall,?Unless into their company,?Its duties and its sport,?Were introduced the pageantry?And etiquette of court--
Enrolled them in a titled band,?L'Ordre de