All my bounties freely share,
Welcome to my honoured guild,
Founded in the days of old,
Ere the human heart grew cold,
Ere its native warmth was chilled
By mistaken sense of duty;—
By sacrifice of youth and beauty
To Plutus, with his lure of gold.
Fear not any churlish cry;
To the Goblin bid good-bye;
Enter, children, bravely enter
To my circle’s shining centre,
Clasping hands;
Stronger far than iron bands
Be your love, and hope and trust;
Equal freedom, fairest speech,
Give I lavishly to each.
See that neither moth nor rust,
Nor cobweb, nor insidious dust
Of cold neglect, e’er dim the light
That lights you from my torch to-night.
By my crown, unfading, bright—
Sweet marjoram and dewy roses—
Emblem of the sovereign might
Which wedded love to hate opposes;—
By this purple vest, symbolic
Of the royal rank of marriage,
Which the fiends alone disparage,
Mocking in their witless frolic;—
By this mystic torch, whose glow
On your souls I now bestow;—
By all these tokens joined, I swear
To have you in my constant care,
But I warn you, neophytes,
Warn you ever to beware
How you guard the altar reared
In my honour, ages gone:
Subtle is the snake that bites;
Wintry days will come anon;
Evil must be fought, not feared;
No fiend can harm, no god subdue
The soul that to itself is true.
To virtue be your homage paid,
And firmly hold the golden clue
Of knowledge, whose imperial aid
Is truly sought and found by few.
These farewell words in memory keep,
Or when you laugh or when you weep.
IV.
_Salutation from the King of the Beavers._
Scene:—Canadian side of the border.
Happy couple, Bride and Groom,
In the flush of life’s fresh bloom,
Welcome to the kindly home
Where we shape the wattled dome,
Cemented o’er with plastic clay,
Impervious to the water’s play;
Where, in moonlight’s silver calm,
My faithful subjects build the dam;
The land whose maple leaf conveys
A prophecy of sweetened days.
Our store of knowledge is but scant,
Our culture in the shell, I grant.
No prophet of our kith and kin
Have we to point the paths of sin;
No learned Professor, beaver born,
Have we to rend in godly scorn
The sophistries our Darwins weave,
O’er which our pious pundits grieve.
I pray you, therefore, not impeach
The rudeness of our rustic speech,
But hear the fancies, none the less,
An honest beaver may express.
Your wisest men, the lords of thought,
Remote and near, have ever sought,
Instruction from the humblest things
That beat the air on filmy wings,
Or creep, or climb, or swim the sea:
Behold the little “busy bee;”
Go to, thou sluggard, cursed with want,
And learn from the industrious ant.
“The early bird;” the cooing dove,
Exemplar of the art of love.
A spider once, at climbing brave,
Fresh courage to a chieftain gave,
When, after many a sore defeat,
His hopes were all in full retreat;
But noting how the insect fell
Time after time, and naught could quell
Its resolution, firm and fast,
And how it reached its mark at last,
No longer chilled with black despair,
His men he rallied, sword in air,
And ere another set of sun
His last great battle fought and won.
And then his tribe—a proper thing—
Made him, like me, their lawful king.
The nautilus, your sages own,
To all mankind have plainly shown
The art of how to sail the seas;
Such creatures low in life as these
Have served to educate and guide;
Meet glossary on human pride!
The several nations show their bent
By what their ruling minds invent
To signify the special merit
That each assumes, or doth inherit.
Their boastful banners proudly bear
The savage forms of earth and air,
And monstrous shapes in neither seen,
Things that were hatched in human spleen,
Creatures patched up from beast and bird,
Which to a beaver seems absurd.
Dragons and griffins, flying fierce,
With fiery tongues designed to pierce
All alien flesh, wherever found,
And claws to clinch the deadly wound.
The warlike Briton, while he cheers,
The lion’s roar in fancy hears;
The Yankee in his happiest dream
_Is sure_ he hears the eagle scream.
These truths the higher truth explain
That dawned on Darwin’s pregnant brain.
Such deference paid to creatures low
Man’s wiser instincts clearly show.
Unconsciously compelled to grant,—
By choosing for his common want,
As teachers, elephant and ant,
And other poor relations, in
Obedience to the law of kin,—
He owns his humble origin.
I know not if in any place,
Or any age, your lifted race
Its sense of equity hath shown
To one poor beast—we needs must own
Compact of kinship, bone of bone,
By making him an emblem fit
Of human wisdom, sense, and wit;
A patient brother, void of blame,
I hesitate to name his name,
But—no offence—I dare not pass
Our worthy, long-eared friend, the ass.
Forgetful that your hunters slay
My people, and their bodies flay.
That human skins, puffed up with pride,
Strut forth in ours—no tongue to chide—
We’re grateful for the honour given
To beaverhood, since nearer heaven
This great Dominion raised our name,
Emblazoned on the scroll of fame;
A choice that to the world attests
The base on which its greatness rests,
Our one transcendent, special gift:—
_Persistency of honest thrift._
My sermon may appear to you
But wind and chaff, however true;
Reject it if you will.—Adieu!
V.
_Serenade of Fairies, crowned with ivy._
Scene:—A street in Montreal, West End.
Time:—November.
Welcome home, our Benedict!
To duty never less than strict;
Welcome thrice thy comely Bride!
Spirit of the frozen north!
Come not from thy palace forth,
Yet a little while abide:
Tarry till the waning moon
Mournful, goes, as if too soon
Summoned from these lucent skies.
Twinkle, joyful, all ye stars!
Peeping through your silver bars,
Rivalled by their laughing eyes.
Hallowed be their sweet repose
When those eyes in slumber close,
When they listen, pleasure-haunted,
To the melody we pour
Down the chimney, through the door,
Listen in their dreams, enchanted.
IN THE WOODS OF ST. LEON.
Let who will sing of cities grand,
Give me the woods, the endless shade
Of trees on which no man e’er laid
A ruthless hand.
What peace, what blissful quietude
The rustle of these polished leaves
Around my dreamy spirit weaves
In this green wood!
Why have I fretted so and striven
In populous towns among my kind,
Where men, who think they see, are blind
And prate of heaven?
Here in this forest breathing spice,
And love-lorn odors, born of flowers
That woo me to their secret bowers,
Is paradise.
The droning of the humble-bee,
The soughing of the wind that stirs
These pine-tops and aspiring firs,
Bring joy to me.
Stretched on this knoll of soft brown spines,
Let me life’s true elixir drink,
Nor even tax myself to think,
Till day declines.
THE LOVER’S DREAM.
Last night,
When all the world was still,—
All but the whip-poor-will,—
A vision bright
Beamed on my lonely sleep,
On eyes late used to weep,
And robed the world in light.
My dear!
I saw thee once again
All beautiful, as when
In moonlight clear
We vowed beside the lake,
No fiend should ever shake,
Our plighted love sincere.
She came
From forth an azure cloud,
And, like an angel, bowed
Fond o’er my frame,
And with her heavenly look,
While I, with transport, shook,
Breathed lovingly my name.
A moan!
I woke, the vision fled,
And feverish on my bed
Till daylight shone,
I turned, and wept, and turned,
While on my lips still burned
The pressure of her own.
O Death!
Whose harshness did not spare
A face and form so fair,
Whoever saith
Thou art to all the wise
A blessing in disguise,
Wastes only idle breath.
No more:—
Ah! how that sound, _no more_,
Travels from shore to shore
The wide world o’er;—
No more shall she entwine
Her young heart’s joy with mine,
Save such as dreams restore.
Ye dreams!
That do unveil the past,
And o’er our spirits cast
Supernal gleams,
Do you deceive us quite,
Gray Wizards of the night?
Is all not what it seems?
The sage,
With philosophic look
The simple may rebuke
From age to age,
And speculations deep
Of mind and matter, heap
On his immortal page:—
His skill,
Majestic though it be,
And dearly loved by me,
Is weakness still;
I would not cast away
The thought that spirits may
In true communion thrill.
O bright,
And beautiful; again,
Again, come to me when
Sleep seals my sight;
Come with those love-lit eyes,
Come with thy fragrant sighs,
Come, love, O come to-night.
THE HEROES OF VILLE-MARIE.
May, 1660.
I.
Tis a tale of those times that afflicted the West,
When the exiles of France found no moment of rest.
When the yell of the savage, the gleam of his knife,
Ever kept the lone settler on watch for his life.
II.
The doom is proclaimed! ’twas the Sachems that spoke,
And rising, the calumet fiercely they broke;
The war-dance is danced, and the war-song is sung
And the warriors full-painted, their weapons have slung.
III.
Each armed with his arquebuse, hatchet and knife,
How they hunger and thirst for the barbarous strife!
They have said it: _The Frenchmen shall sleep with the slain_,
_Maid, matron and babe—not a soul shall remain!_—
IV.
They have spoken—those braves of the Iroquois league,
Renowned for fierce courage and shrewdest intrigue,
Through the Ottawa forest like panthers they tread,
As if stepping already o’er pale-visaged dead.
V.
Young Daulac, defender of fair Ville-Marie,
Has pondered and prayed o’er the savage decree,
And a desperate purpose is stamped on his brow,
And no one can slacken his ultimate vow.
VI.
Will heaven not baffle the merciless threat?
Can the gracious Madonna her children forget?
If God only grant him his people to save,
Then welcome red tomahawks, welcome the grave!
VII.
But who will give heed to the patriot’s word?
Who will venture to follow the flash of his sword?
They must stand to the last bleeding man by his side,
And quench with their life-drops the Iroquois’ pride.
VIII.
There are some—oh, how few!—in the bloom of their years,
Who have listened and pledged him, and trampled their fears;
With hot hearts as brave as their sabres are keen,
They are mustered around him—his gallant _Sixteen_.
IX.
Kind Priest and sad Nuns their last blessing bestow,
And kindred are weeping, for well do they know
That never again, till they meet in the skies,
Will the faces so dear to them gladden their eyes.
X.
They are gone! they have wafted their final adieu,
And the cross on Mount Royal soon fades from their view;
Now westward, now northward they paddle and plod—
Their trust in the piloting hand of their God!
XI.
In a ready redoubt, as by Providence meant,
They hastily fashion their evergreen tent.
And here in the forest, where Ottawa flows,
They prepare for the speedy descent of their foes.
XII.
Oh! rest—weary soldiers, oh! sleep—while the stars
Are shining above you through leaf-fretted bars;
But fail not to rouse with the glimmer of day,
For already the Mohawks have scented their prey.
XIII.
One last happy dream of the loved ones at home,—
One matinal prayer ere the cannibals come,—
One sigh for their sweethearts in young Ville-Marie,—
And a cheer for old France and her proud fleur-de-lis.
XIV.
The song of the bobolink welcomes the morn,
And scents that are sweetest, of wild flowers born,
And pine-lavished odors, are borne by the breeze
That kisses, at random, the newly-robed trees.
XV.
Full-crowned with proud antlers, the stag at the brink
Of the far-sounding rapid has halted to drink;
He starts, blows a signal of danger and dread,
And his mate with her fawn seeking safety has fled.
XVI.
Hark! near and still nearer, yell answers to yell,
All the forest seems peopled with spectres of hell!
Not a tree but now looks as if changed to a fiend,
Not a rock but behind it a demon is screened.
XVII.
“Thank God,” Daulac said, “for this moment supreme,
The reply to my prayer,—vivid truth of my dream;—
Now steady, all ready, my men,—let them dance
To the glory of Canada, glory of France.”
XVIII.
From the loop-holed redoubt their first volley they pour,
And Mohawks and Senecas sink in their gore;
From musket, and huge musketoon, they have seen—
And heard—that our heroes count just _Seventeen_.
XIX.
And dire is the rage of the shame-smitten crew
When they find that the pale-faces number so few;
Again and again comes the stormy attack,
And still the fierce pagans are forced to fall back.
XX.
Day and night, night and day, till the tenth set of sun[2]
No trophy the maddened assailants have won,
Though their fleet-footed runners have hurried from far
Half a thousand tried allies—hot whirlwinds of war.
XXI.
The leaves of past summers that cumber the ground
In pools of bright ruby and purple are drowned,
And, reckless of wounds, through the tempest of lead,
The discomfited Iroquois bear off their dead.
XXII.
Onondagas, Cayugas, Oneidas are there,
Some howling for vengeance, some wild with despair
Once again, with a hurricane rush and a shout,
Like a deluge of lightning they storm the redoubt.
XXIII.
They are hidden from death by their bison-hide shields,[3]
And long wooden bucklers,—the Palisade yields!
But brief is the daring—abrupt is the speech—
Of the foremost who boastingly enters the breach.
XXIV.
In a moment ’tis over! flash blending with flash,
As sword-blades and tomahawks bloodily clash;
“_Vive le Canada!_” Daulac exultantly cried,
Then with cross to his lips, like a martyr he died.
XXV.
The victors their victory purchased so dear,
To their cantons they fled, overmastered with fear,
And the grateful young Colony, saved from the knife
And merciless tomahawk, bloomed with fresh life.
XXVI.
Oh, never shall Canada coldly forget
Her heroes, whose heart-drops her virgin soil wet;
Their fame shall not suffer eclipse, nor decay,
But broaden and brighten as years roll away.[4]
[2] “During about ten days they resisted the most strenuous exertions
of assailants,” &c.—Miles’ _History of Canada_, page 117.
[3] Parkman, in his _Pioneers of France in the New World_, says,
in a footnote (p. 321): “According to Lafitau, both bucklers and
breast-plates were in frequent use among the Iroquois. The former were
very large, and made of cedar wood covered with interwoven thongs of
hide.”
[4] In this ballad, the writer has purposely omitted to recognize the
part taken in the affair by the few Algonquin and Huron Indians who
joined the Frenchmen. First, because nearly the whole number deserted
to the enemy during the conflict, thus more than counterbalancing
any service which they may have rendered at the outset, and, second,
because the contrast of race and character is lost by mixing civilized
and savage men together as allies in opposition to combatants of the
latter type. For these reasons, he ventures to think that the spirit of
poesy will justify this deviation from the strict line of historical
narration.
CHANGE ON THE OTTAWA.
(_A Fragment._)
I.
Onward the Saxon treads. Few years ago,
A chief of the Algonquins passed at dawn,
With knife, and tomahawk, and painted bow,
Down the wild Ottawa, and climbed upon
A rocky pinnacle, where in the glow
Of boyhood he had loved to chase the fawn;
Proudly he stood there, listening to the roar
Of rapids sounding, sounding evermore.
II.
All else was silence, save the muffled sound
Of partridge drumming on the fallen tree,
Or dry brush crackling from the sudden bound
Of startled deer, that snorts, and halts to see
Then onward o’er the leaf-encumbered ground,
Through his green world of beauty, ever free.
Such was the scene—no white man’s chimney nigh,
And joy sat, plumed, in the young warrior’s eye.
III.
No white man’s axe his hunting grounds had marred,
The primal grandeur of the solemn woods,
When Summer all her golden gates unbarred,
And hung voluptuous o’er the shouting floods,—
Or when stern Winter gave the rich reward,
All suited with his uncorrupted moods,
For all was built, voiced, roofed with sun and cloud,
By the Great Spirit unto whom he bowed.
IV.
The grey of morn was edging into white,
When down the rugged rock the Indian passed,
Like a thin shadow. Soon the rosy light
Lay on the maple leaf, the dew-drops cast
A lustrous charm on many a mossy height,
And squirrels broke out in chatter, as the blast
Swayed the tall pine-tops where they leaped, and made
Grand organ-music in the green-wood shade.
V.
Again the Indian comes—some years have rolled,—
Down the wild Ottawa, and stands upon
His boyhood haunt, and with an eye still bold
Looks round, and sighs for glories that are gone;
For all is changed, except the fall that told,
And tells its Maker still, and Bird-rock lone;
Sadly he leans against an evening sky,
Transfigured in its ebb of rosy dye.
VI.
He sees a city there:—the blazing forge,
The mason’s hammer on the shaping stone,
Great wheels along the stream revolving large,
And swift machinery’s whirr and clank, and groan,
And the fair bridge that spans the yawning gorge,
Which drinks the spray of Chaudière, leaping prone,—
And spires of silvery hue, and belfry’s toll,
All strike, like whetted knives, the red man’s soul.
VII.
Wide the area of the naked space
Where broods the city like a mighty bird,
And the grave Sachem from his rock can trace
Her flock of villages, where lately stirred
The bear and wolf, tenacious of their place,
And where the wild cat with her kittens purred;—
Now while the shades of eve invest the land,
What myriad lights flash out on every hand!
VIII.
The dead day’s crimson, interwove with brown,
Has wrapped the watcher upon Oiseau Rock,
And o’er him hangs bright Hesper, like a crown,
As if the hand of Destiny would mock
His soul’s eclipse and sorrow-sculptured frown;—
Thick as wild pigeons, dusky memories flock
O’er the wide wind-fall of his fated race,
And thus he murmurs to his native place:
IX.
“Here dwelt within the compass of my gaze,
All whom I ever loved, and none remain
To cheer the languor of my wintry days,
Or tread with me across the misty plain;
A solitary tree, the bleak wind strays
Among my boughs, which moaningly complain;
Familiar voices whisper round and say,
_Seek not to find our graves! Away! Away!_
X.
The sire who taught my hands to hold the bow,
The mother who was proud of my renown,
On them no more the surly tempests blow,
How little do they heed or smile or frown,
The summer’s blossoms or the winter’s snow!
With them, at last, I thought to lay me down,
Where birds should sing, and wild deer safely play,
And endless woods fence out the glare of day.
XI.
Friend of my youth, my “Wa-Wa[5] Height,” adieu!
No more shall I revisit thee, no more
Gaze from thy summit on the upper blue,
And listen to the rapid’s pleasing roar;—
I go,—my elder brother!—to pursue
The Elk’s great shadow on a distant shore,
Where Nature, still unwounded, wears her charms,
And calls me, like a mother, to her arms.”
XII.
He ceased and strode away; no tear he shed,
A weakness which the Indian holds in scorn,
But sorrow’s moonless midnight bowed his head,
And once he looked around—Oh! so forlorn!
I hated for his sake the reckless tread
Of human progress,—on _his_ race no morn,
No noon of happiness shall ever beam;
They fade as from our waking fades a dream.
[5] Wa-Wa, _or i.e. lit._—_the Wild Goose_.
THE BLIND MINSTREL OF THE MARKET PLACE.
Along the echoing harbour crowds appear,
For ’tis the busy season of the year;
Soft airs of June are whispering to the leaves,
And happy swallows sport along the eaves.
Far, hovering on the east’s remotest rim,
A white-winged ship is seen, sublimely dim;
Half on the watery plain and half in heaven,
No fairer vision to the world is given.
At nearer view, her topmast gives the breeze
St. George’s Cross, renowned o’er all the seas;
Slowly she paces up the shimmering tide,
Britannia’s peerless child, old ocean’s bride;
With majesty of mien she takes her place,
While welcome beams on many a wishful face;
Sweet thoughts of distant scenes, forever dear,
Her presence brings to many a wanderer here
Scenes which, however fair his lot be cast,
The exile loves and longs for to the last.
The jovial sailor, safe from ocean’s roar,
Sings on the deck, or gaily leaps on shore;
Careless of dangers past or to be met,
His wish upon the present chance is set;
If Prudence speaks, her voice is hushed to rest,
His only business now is to be blest.
Such was the aspect of the genial hour
When first I felt the sightless minstrel’s power,
And gazed upon that melancholy brow
Which moved the pitying tear, and haunts me now.
Stricken, but aye serene, he gropes his way
Where busy hucksters all their wealth display,
And prudent housewives roam from stall to stall,
Till each has higgled round the range of all.
Youthful, yet worn, his pallid cheek betrays
That he has borne the pinch of evil days;
His inner world, a lonely isle of thought,
Afflicted with an unpropitious lot;
His outer world, a blank,—contracted, strange,—
The breadth his hand can reach, its utmost range.
The landscape, stretching to the purple hills,
With groves and cottages and gleaming rills,
All nice gradations that belong to space,
And which the humblest rustic loves to trace,
If mentioned or described, perplex his mind,
And force the silent comment, _I am blind!_—
In vain for him the splendour of the skies
Expanded floats above his lifted eyes.
The blush of dawn, the noontide beams, the hues
That clothe the west when fall the early dews,—
These, and the softer glories of the night,
Send no sweet message through his torpid sight.
But never having known the joy that springs
From observation of external things,
To him their absence is but partial loss,
And half unconsciously he bears his cross.
Taught, by a lofty faith, to nurse content,
And prize the scanty good that God hath lent,
He trusts the sacred source of perfect love,
And hopes to see the light in worlds above.
Thus safely anchored, bravely doth he try
To earn the little that his wants supply,
Nursing the manly virtue in his heart,
That scorns the mendicant’s ignoble part.
His violin, the only wealth he owns,
Speaks to his soul in such endearing tones,
That now, the sole companion of his life,
He names, in quiet jest, _My little wife_.
To-day, while sounds of commerce everywhere,
And hasty human footsteps jar the air,
Upon the market place the minstrel stands,
Tuning his instrument with pallid hands.
Close by, the mighty river rolls along,
And, solaced by its sympathetic song,
He hastens, while his audience gather round,
To emulate the sweetness of its sound.
With practised ear, in listening attitude,
He first interrogates the vocal wood;
Its answers he receives with changing look,
Anger, approval, pleasure, or rebuke.
Till coaxing, fondling, with persuasive art,
Pressing the yearner closer to his heart,
The perfect soul of harmony he wakes,
And o’er his face the light of gladness breaks.
So must he regulate his rude desires,
Who fain would tread the earth as heaven requires;
Each captive vice must cower beneath his skill.
Till made the pliant vassal of his will,
Then angels, though unseen, will linger near,
And whisper secrets of their native sphere.
Now speeds the bow, and from the panting strings
Sweet meanings float afar on airy wings.
No complicated task doth he assume,
Such as may suit the genius of a Prume,
But simple airs that charm the simple heart,
Partaking more of nature than of art;
Soft sounds and plaintive murmurs that express
All earnest feelings, rapture, and distress,
Love’s fever and the patriotic glow
That prompts the eager hand to smite the foe;
But chief the nimble notes that youthful feet,
So dear to Terpsichora, love to greet,
Inspire his elbow;—how it swirls and sways,
As if to trace the dance’s witching maze!
The young, the aged, homely face and fair,
With shining looks and willing ears are there;
The market-woman, dowered with double chin,
And proud rotundity of abdomen;
The scented dandy, with his twirling cane,
Embroidered vest, and gorgeous golden chain;
The bare-foot urchin, with his mottled face,
Elbowing Master Ruffle for a place;—
There, girt with scarlet sash, with whip in hand,
The modest _habitant_ secures his stand;—
A gentle being, blessed with quiet days,
Politeness blossoms out in all his ways:—
O, ye who walk, and sit, and speak by rule!
Forgetting Nature’s free and ample school,
In him behold, and copy if you can,
The royal pattern of a _gentleman_.