Light of the widow's heart! art thou then dead?
And is then thy spirit from earth ever fled?
And shall we, then, see thee and hear thee no more,
All radiant in beauty and life as before?
My own blue-eyed darling, Oh, why didst thou die,
Ere the tear-drop of sorrow had dimmed thy bright eye,
Ere thy cheek's blooming hue felt one touch of decay,
Or thy long golden ringlets were mingled with grey?
Why, star of our path-way, why didst thou depart?
Why leave us to weep for the pulse of the heart?
Oh, darkened for ever is life's sunny hour,
When robbed of its brightest and loveliest flower!
Around thy low bier sacred incense is flinging,
And soft on the air are the silver bells ringing;
For the peace of thy soul is the holy mass said,
And on thy fair forehead the blessed cross laid.
Soft, soft be thy slumbers, our lady receive thee,
And shining in glory for ever thy soul be;
To the climes of the blessed, my own grama-chree,
May blessings attend thee, sweet cushla ma-chree.
As we passed the jemseg, we spoke of the time when Madame la Tour so
bravely defended the fort in the absence of her husband--this occurred
in the early times of the province, and strange stories are told of
spirit forms which glide along the beach, beneath whose sands the white
bones of the French and Indians, who fell in the deadly fight, lie
buried. Talking of these things, induced Mrs. Gordon to tell us the
following tale, which she had heard, and which I have entitled