Fleurs de lys and Other Poems | Page 4

Bon Temps named,?First knighthood's grade for which this land?Of Canada is famed.?Each one in turn Grand Master was--?At close of day released--?His duty to maintain the laws,?And furnish forth a feast.
Filled with a pardonable pride?In nobles wont to dwell,?Each with his predecessor vied?In bounty to excel,?And thus it was the festive board?With beaver, otter, deer,?And fish and fowl was richly stored,?Throughout the changing year.
At mid-day--for our sires of old?Dined when the sun was high--?To where the cloth was spread, behold?These merry youths draw nigh,?Each bearing on a massy tray?Some dainty for the feast,?While the Grand Master leads the way,?Festivity's high priest!
Then seated round the banquet board,?Afar from friends and home,?They drank from goblets freely poured?To happier days to come.?And once again, in story, shone?The sun, that erst in France?Was wont, in days long past and gone,?Amid the vines to dance.
Still later, when the sun had set,?And round the fire they drew?To sing, or tell a tale ere yet?Too old the evening grew,?He who had ruled them for the day?His sceptre did resign,?And drink to his successor's sway?A brimming cup of wine.
CHAMPLAIN.
Would that with the bold Champlain,?And his comrades staunch and true,?I had crossed the stormy main,?Golden visions to pursue:?And had shared?Their lot, and dared?Fortune with that hardy crew!
Thus I murmur, as I close?Parkman, day being long since sped,?Yet in vain I seek repose,?For the stirring words I read?In the sage's?Learned pages,?Still are ringing in my head.
All the perils of the sea.?All the dangers of the land,?Of the waves that hungrily?Leapt round Champlain's stalwart band,?Of the foes,?That round him rose,?Numerous as the ocean sand.
Every trial he underwent,?Winter's famine and disease,?Weeks in dreary journey spent,?Battle, treason, capture--these?Sweep my mind,?As sweeps the wind,?Sighing, through the forest trees.
Wandering through the tangled brakes,?Where the treacherous Indians hide,?Launching upon crystal lakes,?Stemming Uttawa's dark tide;?Still my sight,?Pursues his flight?Through the desert, far and wide.
With the sunlight in his face,?I behold him as he plants?At Cape Diamond's rugged base,?In the glorious name of France,?Yon fair town?That still looks down?On the river's broad expanse.
I behold him as he hurls?Proud defiance at the foe,?And the fleur-de-lys unfurls?High o'er Admiral Kirkt below,?Till he slips,?With all his ships,?Down the river, sad and slow.
And I see him lying dead,?On that dreary Christmas day,?While the priests about his bed?Weeping kneel, and softly pray,?As the bell?Rings out its knell?For a great soul passed away!
Yes, a gallant man was he,?That brave-hearted, old French tar,?Whose great name through history?Shines on us, as from afar?Through the gray?Of dawning day?Gleams the glorious Morning Star!
THE PRIEST AND THE MINISTER.
From Old France once sailed a vessel,?Bearing hearts that came to nestle?In Acadia's breast and wrestle?With its Winters cold.?Priests and ministers it bore,?Who had sought that desert shore,?Filled with ardor to restore?Lost sheep to the fold.
Yet though on such errand wending,?They debated without ending,?Each his cherished faith defending?Morning, noon and night.?Never on the balmy air?Heavenward rose united prayer,?Stout Champlain was in despair?At the godless sight.
Late and early they debated,?Never ceasing, never sated,?Till the very sailors hated?Them and their debates.?Not at dinner were they able,?Even, to forego their Babel,?But, disputing, smote the table?Till they jarred the plates.
Tossed about by the gigantic?Billows of the wild Atlantic,?Still they argued, until, frantic?With religious zeal,?Tonsured priests and Huguenots?From discussions came to blows,?Sieur de Monts had no repose?From their fierce appeal.
Oft the minister came crying,?How, while he had been replying?To the curé and denying?Something he had said,?That the latter fell on him?And, with more than priestly vim,?Beat him, body, head and limb--?Beat him till he fled.
Days passed by, and then one morning,?While the sunbeams were adorning?Sea and sky, the lookout's warning?Echoed from the mast;?And, before the close of day,?Safe the little vessel lay,?Anchored in a sheltered bay:?Land was reached at last.
But, within their cabins lying,?Priest and Minister were dying,?To their future haven nighing,?Ere the dawn they died,?And within the forest shade?Soon a narrow grave was made,?Where the two were gently laid,?Sleeping side by side.
That same evening, as they rested?Round the fire, the sailors jested?Of the dead, how they contested?All across the sea,?And a sailor, laughing said:?"Let us hope the reverend dead?Yonder in their narrow bed?Manage to agree."
PILOT.
Merry Carlo, who runn'st at my heels?Through the dense-crowded streets of the city,?In and out among hurrying wheels,?And whose run in the suburbs reveals?Only scenes that are peaceful and pretty.
Raise to mine your intelligent face,?Open wide your great brown eyes in wonder?While I tell how lived one of your race?Years ago in this now busy place--?Ay, and ran at the heels of its founder.
Mistress Pilot, for that was her name,?And you could not have called her a better,?Was a gallant and dutiful dame--?Since her breed is forgotten by Fame,?For your sake I will call her a setter.
Pilot lived when Ville Marie was young,?And the needs of its people were sorest;?When the rifle unceasing gave tongue,?And the savage lay hidden among?The Cimmerian shades