Verses and Rhymes by the way | Page 5

meet her eye, His step sound at the river gate Oh! it was hard to hear them say, "He comes not, and he must be dead Cease pining all your life away, 'Twere better far that you should wed And Antoine keeps his first love still, And Antoine is so well to do, You may be happy if you will His pleading eyes ask leave to woo" 'Twas a relief to steal away, And tell her ebon rosary, And to the Virgin Mother pray, Thinking that she in Heaven above, Remembered all of earthly love, And human sympathy, And having suffered human pain-- Known what it was to grieve in vain-- Might bend to listen to her prayer, And make the absent one her care In pleading with her Son
She waited while the years went on, And would not think that hope was gone, Ever his steps seemed sounding near, His voice came floating to her ear, And longing prayer, and yearning pain Reached out to draw him back again; And love beyond all estimate Strengthened her heart to hope and wait Pet Marie grew up tall and fair, Her girlish love, her merry ways Kept the poor mother from despair Through many weary nights and days.
Spring and high water both had met Once more at fair Plantagenet; Once more the island trees were seen Adorned with leaves of tender green, Aux Lievres's roar was heard afar, Where waters dashed on rocks to spray, Roaring and tumbling in their play, Kept up a boisterous holiday, With tumult loud of mimic war. The wild ducks of Lochaber's Bay Were playing round on wanton wing, Rippling the current with their breasts, Feeling the gladness of the spring, Pairing and building happy nests All sounds of spring were in the air, All sights of spring were fresh and fair Sad Marie of Plantagenet, With silver threads among her hair, And by her side her blooming pet, As she had once been, fresh and fair, Stood on the bank that glorious day Thinking of him so long away Awhile they both in silence stood, Then Marie said, "The Nor-west flood Again another year has come. You see those water-fowl at play Come with the flood from far away. What flood will bring your father home? 'Tis seventeen years ago to-day, Since, parting here, he went away." Just then young Marie, glancing round "Mamma, I hear a paddle's sound, Look there, those maple branches through, Below us, there's a bark canoe, 'Tis stopping at our landing place There's but one man with hair so grey, And a worn weather-beaten face-- See, he is coming up this way Mamma, I wonder who is he, Stay here and I will go and see."
Rajotte who thought he did not care-- That he had conquered even despair, Could bear to see as well as know That Marie was the Dame Vaiseau, Came to the parting spot, and there, In the bright sunlight's happy beams, Stood the fair image of his dreams As young as on the parting day, As bright as when he went away, As beautiful as when he met Her first in fair Plantagenet, His Marie, living, breathing, warm, Her glorious eyes, her midnight hair Shading the beauty of her face, The same lithe, rounded, perfect form, The look of true and tender grace
Rajotte stood spell-bound, and the past Seemed fading like a horrid dream. "Marie," he said, "I'm home at last, Speak, Marie, are you what you seem? After all these long years of pain, Art thou love given to me again?" The maiden stood with wondering eyes, Silent, because of her surprise, But the wife Marie gave a cry Of joy that rose to agony She rushed the long lost one to meet, And falling, fainted at his feet He held the true wife's pallid charms Slowly reviving in his arms, And then he surely learned to know A little of the grand, true heart That through so many years of woe Waited, and prayed, 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