Verses and Rhymes by the way | Page 6

and watched apart, Keeping
love's light while he was gone, Like sacred fire still burning on
While hearts are bargained for and sold, In fashion's fortune-chasing
whirl, We simply sing the love and faith Out-living absence strong as
death, Of one low-born Canadian girl.

A LEGEND OF BUCKINGHAM VILLAGE.

PART I
Away up on the River aux Lievres, That is foaming and surging always,
And from rock to rock leaping through rapids, Which are curtained by
showers of spray;
That is eddying, whirling and chasing All the white swells that break
on the shore; And then dashing and thundering onward, With the sound

of a cataract's roar.
And up here is the Buckingham village, Which is built on these waters
of strife, It was here that the minister Babin, Stood and preached of the
Gospel of Life,
Of the message of love and of mercy, The glad tidings of freedom and
peace, Of help for the hopeless and helpless, For all weary ones rest
and relief.
Was his message all noise like the rapids? Was it empty and light as the
foam? Ah me! what thought the desolate inmate Of the still upper room
of his home?
One too many, one sad and unwelcome, That reclined in his invalid's
chair, With her pale, busy fingers still knitting Yarn mingled with
sorrow and care.
And the brother stood up in the pulpit, Stood up there in the neat
village church, And he preached of the pool of Bethesda, Where the
poor lame man lay in the porch
Waiting for the invisible mercy, That shall healing and blessedness
bring, For those soft waters never were troubled, Until swept by the life
angel's wing.
But was that cottage home a Bethesda? Was the porch up the dark
narrow stair? Were the thoughts of the lonely sister Brighter made by a
fond brother's care?
Ah who knows!--for the chair now is empty, And the impotent girl is
away, While the night and the darkness covered Such a deed from the
light of the day.
Did she struggle for her dear existence? Did the wild night winds bear
off her cry? Ere the pitiless, swift surging waters, Caught and
smothered her agony;
And again when the black, whirling eddy, Drew her down to its cold,
rocky bed, Who was it that stood so remorseless On the strong ice
arched over her head?
Men may join and strike hands to hide it, And agree to say evil is good;
Mingled with the loud roar of the waters, Rings the cry of our lost
sister's blood.
Mirth and song, and untimely music, May sound up to the starry skies;
Nought of earth can stifle the gnawing Of that dread worm that never
dies.

PART II
Away in a distant city, Is a stranger all unknown; Far, far from the
leaping river, That is rushing past his home.
He lay in the stilly silence Of a quiet, darkened room, Feeling that the
dread death angel Stands in the gathering gloom.
One foot on shadowy waters, One foot on the earthly shore; He swears
to the shrinking mortal, That his time shall be no more.
The spray of the silent river, Is cold beaded on his brow, For Jordan's
billowy swellings Are bearing him onward now
He is floating into darkness, Going with the shifting tide, And there is
the seat of judgment, Waits him at the further side.
But his eyes are looking backward, In pauses of mortal strife, And he
sees the quiet village, Where he preached the word of life.
And he sees the pleasant cottage, To which in the flush of pride, The
popular village pastor, Brought home a most haughty bride
But ever there comes another, With a pale and pleading face, So
helpless, and so unwelcome, A burden and a disgrace
And the river roars and rushes, Leaping past with fearful din, Its ever
foaming caldron Suggesting a deadly sin.
Saying, "I am partially sheeted, In the winter's ice and snow, What's
plunged in my dashing waters, No mortal shall ever know"
So ever with nervous fingers, He harnesses up his sleigh; So ever with
stealthy movements, He travels the icy way.
And stops where the yawning chasm, Shows the yawning wave beneath,
And she knows with sudden horror, That she has been brought to her
death
Her weak hands cling to his bosom, His ears are thrilled with her cry;
When the last struggling strength went forth In that shriek of agony.
So his most unwilling spirit, Still travels memory's track, Despair
staring blindly forward, Remorse ever dragging back.
Again he walks by the waters, While innocent mortals sleep, Asking
the pitiless river, The horrible deed to keep.
Spring comes and the ice is breaking, Does it break before its time?
Then he