CHAPTER III.

Thus commenced those dread incursions Of the relentless Iroquois; Unceasing in their deadly hatred, They burst with frightful cruelty, At hours or moments unexpected, On the despairing Hurons there, Slaying, burning, and desolating The Huron Nation everywhere.

All their good towns were laid in ashes, And thousands slain in bloody strife; Hunted and pursued forever, Their certain doom the scalping knife. Amid it all they prayed unceasing, Through dire distress and fell despair-- Pled for mercy and deliverance, And for Divine protecting care.

Driven at last to desperation, They left their homes and stole away, And gained the Island of St. Joseph, In the lovely Georgian Bay. Here they built a fortressed mission, And by thousands huddled round, With the stern winter time upon them, A storm-swept region, iron-bound.

There with suffering and privation, And their dread foemen lurking near, With pestilence in thousands slaying, And tortured by consuming fear, They prayed for peace and preservation, Sustained in that dread anxious hour By the assurance of the Great Spirit, Trusting still His mighty power.

All through that direful time malignant, Of persecution, blood, and flame, The intrepid Jesuits preached unceasing, Absolved and blessed in Jesus’ name. Driven by want and sheer starvation, O’erwhelmed now and desolate, They leave their lone bleak island fortress In desperate, appalling state.

Hell only hath a rage co-equal To the ferocious Iroquois. Again they fell upon the Hurons, Gloating like fiends, with hideous glee; Torturing, exterminating, burning, Glutting their diabolic hate, Red demons of incarnate fury, A hideous and satanic state.

In vain the Huron braves did rally, Fighting all desperately there, Only to fall in the dread _melee_; Beaten, massacred everywhere, They fled now through the awesome forest, Fled by river, and stream, and rill, Seeking all vainly for concealment By lonely vale and towering hill.

For an implacable foe pursues, And o’er this wide expanse so fair Was a reign of woe unutterable, With grim death revelling everywhere. And it ceased not for a moment, That frightful carnage, by night nor day, Till _en masse_ the Hurons perished, Swept from their mother earth away.

No more Lake Simcoe and Lake Huron, Nor all that great wide reach between, Shall echo to the Huron’s war song. A weird strange life, which like a dream Hath floated out by mystic spaces, Down the silence of ceaseless flow, Lost and mouldering with the ages, Fifty and two hundred years ago.

And I pause in reverie dreamful By Lake Huron’s liquid tide, But no primeval forest greets me. O’er the expansion far and wide Are dotted homes, reposing peaceful, Gemmed by river, hill and stream, Crowned by the sunlight’s golden glory, Where pagan wigwams once were seen.

ON THE HEADLAND.

It stood on a lonely headland, Pointing far out to sea, Braving the storms of centuries, A venerable giant tree. No other ones grew near it, It towered there alone, As if forever listening To the ocean’s weary moan.

And phantom, mysterious voices In its topmost boughs were heard When the wind sobbed o’er the ocean, And its giant form was stirred. It crooned perhaps of a thousand years, Of a thousand years ago, When all life was summerladen, A tender and golden glow.

It stands no more on the headland, Pointing far out to sea; It welcomes no more my coming, It complains no more to me. It yielded at last to the tempest, ’Twas forever swept away; Alas, for the vacant places, Time ever winneth the day.

I stand to-day on the headland, Looking far out to sea, Tired of life and the burden Forever resting on me. And over the lonely ocean, The cold clouds roll stern and gray, Obscuring a tender vision Of a fair land far away.

ONLY A VISION.

In my vision I stood on a loftier mount Than this wonderful world hath seen, And gazed down a valley deep and dark, Where so strangely rolled between Lone shores that were weird and unearthly, A river as black as death’s doom, When a hopeless soul is departing, And night comes in horror and gloom.

And the old and young there assembled, With burdens too grievous to bear; And their deep moans and lamentations Rose up anguished from everywhere. I saw by a light dim and waning A river of deep, dark despair, And a voice, as of God, sternly warning-- Up on high it floated somewhere.

And I raised my eyes toward heaven-- Not a ray of sunlight was there; Fierce clouds swept along, as if driven By fiends through the desolate air. I listened in awe as that warning Came in tones stern, yet tender as love, Reaching down in that sorrowful valley Saying, “Hopeless souls, look above.”

And up from those depths dark and dreary Rose a prayer such as earth never heard, So full of unutterable pleadings, The very hills and mountains were stirred. Suddenly the clouds rent asunder, Rolled back, and the light of the spheres Burst forth in intenseness and glory, Lighting up that lone valley of tears.

I heard songs of praise and rejoicing, Such music as earth never heard, Entrancing my soul with its rapture, Such immeasurable joy it conferred. And quickly that vale, late so barren, Bloomed with fruits and the fairest of flowers, And music and laughter came rippling From hillsides, sweet vales, and green bowers.

And the river flowed on in its beauty, By mansions so fair on the lea; On and on, flashing in the sunlight, Gliding peacefully to the sea. I knew there was rapture in heaven When the wanderers returned to the fold, For I heard the songs of the angels, Attuned to their sweet harps of gold.

I, too, would have joined in rejoicing With the friends of the long ago: One fair as the angels awaiteth Where the sunset gates are aglow. But suddenly the thought came to me That I was forsaken and lone, On a desolate far mountain height, Cast out ever from friends and home.

For there was no way from the mountain, And I sank with a bitter cry On the bleached and tempest-swept rocks, O’erwhelmed and alone to die. Many years have passed since that vision Rapt my soul on that fatal day, And still I am lost on the mountain, And heaven seems far away.

THE WORLD WANTS A SMILING FACE.

The world wants a smiling face, my boy, The world wants a bright smiling face; ’Tis the passport to favor on sea or land, In every profession and place. The world cares little, my darling boy, And heeds not the lonely and sad; But caresses ever the smiling face, And whatever maketh it glad.

Besides, ’tis a duty, my noble boy; God gave man the instinct to smile, To lighten the burden his brother bears For many a lone, weary mile. Then keep your heart pure, my darling boy, Doing ever the Father’s will; And whatever your station in life may be, Rich blessings thy years all shall fill.

Remove the obstacles from your path, Though your hands be bleeding, my boy; The brave and the pure that fight to the last No evil can ever destroy. Smile, though your heart be breaking, my boy; To the world say never a word; Go fearlessly on, and you’ll win at the last The victory, though long deferred.

Smile on the children, my darling boy, “Of such are the kingdom of heaven”; From the loved of home withhold it not, ’Tis a potent and sunny leaven, Raising the despondent to strength again, Removing the gloom from the day; It crowns all life with a nameless grace, Putting sorrow and care away.

Your brother needs your bright smile, my boy, And the clasp of your strong right hand; His pathway may be with danger beset, In many a strange, far land. Pass not the sin-stained of earth, my boy, Raise the fallen again if you can; A purified soul, forgiven and blest, Rejoiceth the Saviour of man.

Smile on the unfortunate, my boy, Take the hand of the poor and old; Sympathy warmeth the desolate-- ’Tis better than silver and gold. It leadeth up to the starry heights, ’Twas divinely, wisely given; Soothing and blessing all the long way, It surely entereth heaven.

THE VOICE OF TEARS.

’Twas only the voice of a stranger, But never through all the years Have I heard a tone so pleading, So unutterably full of tears. I looked, and I never have seen A face so touchingly sad; Surely all hope had flown away, Never again to be glad.

His eye had a far-away look, And a shadow of nameless pain; A patient, pathetic gaze, That never would smile again. What was it, oh, thou tearful voice? Was fortune against thee arrayed? Did all hope and trust flee away? Was thy love and friendship betrayed?

’Twas only a meek, worn stranger, All alone on life’s highway, So patiently moving onward To the close of a weary day. Ah, me! but my eyes were blinded, And never through all the years Was my heart so moved for another, Oh, desolate voice of tears!

THE GARDEN.

Twas an Eden of bloom and beauty, At the dawning sweet and fair, And the incense of sunny bowers Perfumed the summer air. The azure sky domed above it, And the wind that softly sighed, And the song of nature, subtly sweet, I heard there on every side.

The car of time, with its worn-out years, Moves sadly along the way; The lonesome voice of the autumn winds Sobs low with the dying day. And once again in the dimming light I stand in the garden gate, But I start--and the tears suffuse my eyes, ’Tis so faded and desolate.

THE BATTLE OF QUEENSTON HEIGHTS.

FOUGHT OCTOBER 13TH, 1812.

They crossed in the gray of the morning, Stole o’er from the other shore, To invade the land of the Maple Leaf, Two thousand proud foes, or more. A detachment of the old Forty-Ninth And Dennis’s brave volunteers Opposed their landing determinedly, Opening on them with cheers.

The roar of the guns from the battery Rolled down Niagara’s gorge, Awakening Brock and his fearless men From their rest at old Fort George. And in hot haste Brock and his _aides-de-camp_ Rode fast through the pale, cold light, Bidding Sheaffe and his men to follow on To aid in the coming fight.

Meanwhile the Americans won the heights, And the guns half way below; Their loss was a serious menace, too, In the hands of the haughty foe. Swift as the fleet wind Brock gained the vale And lifted his flashing eye, Measuring the foe on the cold, gray steeps, And the battery nearer by.

“The guns must be won!” Brock quickly cried, And came an answering cheer From the intrepid, ready Forty-Ninth-- Brave souls devoid of all fear! “Forward! charge home to the battery’s side!” And dauntless he led the way, Driving the foe from the smoking guns By the cold steel’s deadly play.

Heroically leading, he drew their fire, And fearlessly fighting fell, Pierced through the breast by a mortal shot, The leader all loved so well. “Don’t mind me,” he thoughtfully cried; “Push on, brave York volunteers!” Sent a message to his sister over the sea, His eyes suffused with tears.

Thus perished war’s genius gloriously, A great leader young in years; So loved and mourned for, brave, pure soul, Thy name we bedew with tears. Gallantly Sheaffe by St. David’s moves up, Turning their flank by the way, Gaining the heights by an impetuous rush, Not a moment held at bay.

Consuming volleys they hurl on the foe, Then charge with their deadly steel, And hundreds are slain in the mad _melee_-- See the foe in panic reel! The British line sweeps resistlessly down; The proud foe must surely yield. Ha! they break--they break into headlong flight In defeat from that blood-red field!

Over the heights in mad flight now leaping, Some were impaled on the trees, Where mockingly their garments fluttered For years in the storm and breeze. Some plunged in the cold rushing river To gain safely the other shore, But were lost in the swirl of its waters, And were heard of nevermore.

Nine hundred men surrendered to Sheaffe, A force greater than his own. Ah! ’twas a gallant day, and nobly won; Signally the enemy were overthrown. And, standing there on the glorious Heights, They cheered for country and king; They unfurled the “flag of a thousand years”; Their shouts o’er the scene did ring.

’Twas a far-famed day for our lovèd land, Ring it over the world so wide; Like veterans Canadians fought that day, With the regulars side by side. Dearly the victory was won for us In the death of beloved Brock. Immortal hero! thy irreparable loss Was to all a grievous shock.

They muffled their drums and reversed their arms, And marshalled around his bier, And solemnly bowed their war-worn heads, And silently dropped a tear. E’en the painted savages loved him well, And o’er each stoical face Stole a shadow of pain and tenderness, Hallowing that sacred place.

A grateful country has planted there A monument tow’ring high, His memory e’er to perpetuate, Pointing ever to the sky. The hero and his _aide_, parted not by death, Secure their relics rest there, In the lovely land of the Maple Leaf Ever so loyal and fair.

Aye, a grateful country placed it there-- On earth there’s no grander scene-- And we sing with a grateful, fervent heart To our country and our Queen. Revere, then, the dead, and honor them still, They died our freedom to save; God bless the flag of a thousand years May it long o’er us proudly wave.

A FOREST DREAM.

Bare and gaunt the forest standeth, Reaching out so wide and high, As if mutely supplicating Mercy of an angry sky. Oh! such hollow and weird voices Issue from its solemn aisles, As if lonely forest phantoms Mourn the loss of summer’s smiles.

I have sought the dim old forest And its old familiar ways: Frozen streams, dark glens and bowers, Dear to me in childhood’s days. All is silent and forsaken, Leaf and flower lie cold and dead, Mute appealing to the memory, Telling of a day that’s fled.

I have known when summer’s mantle, Fair and sweet as poet’s dream, Covered in a wild profusion These old haunts with rustling green. Then the forest aisles were merry With the glee the song-birds made, And their gentle echoes followed Every stream and fragrant glade.

Then I sung with boyhood’s rapture, Leaped and shouted in the dell, Till the golden hush of sunset, With its silent shadows, fell O’er the hills that, rapt in dreaming, Watched the moonrise on the sea, Where the wavelets danced and murmured Low voiced and mysteriously.

Life was one long dream of gladness-- All unknown the future lay; Ah! the years have brought deep sadness-- Summer’s merged in winter’s gray. And I wander, bowed and weary, Grieving o’er the faded past, As the snowflakes flit around me, Borne upon the winter’s blast.

WOMAN.

O June, thou art beautiful as ever! Nature’s wrought in her wondrous way A dream reverie of lilies and roses Wherever we wander to-day. Breathing up so tenderly everywhere A fragrance subtly sweet, Where the soft, low winds kiss the sunny hills, And the waves fall down at our feet.

But woman is fairer and sweeter still, And divine as a spirit dream; And claiming all homage and tenderness, And to reign in man’s heart supreme. Thus, crowned in her perfect loveliness, All alight are her witching eyes; And peeping therein we dream, aye, we dream, Of the angels in paradise.

O winsome woman! this lovely June day More fair than the roses in bloom, Or lilies that ope by the purling stream, That fade from our life’s way too soon, We pay thee court, we acknowledge thy sway, We lay all we have at thy feet; The cottage is home, and the mansion ’s alight, When blest by thy presence so sweet.

When the heart would faint in the battle of life, And our strength and our courage would fail, We are roused by thee to a nobler strife, And again the foe we assail. And if thou art true and point us the way, We face all opposing powers; Though the fight be grievous and sorely long, The vict’ry will surely be ours.

THE JESUIT.

Consecrated to a lonely life of celibacy, Seeing only a vain delusion and a fallacy In terrestrial unions--man’s uncertainty of bliss, Suspended in the balance o’er an infinite abyss-- Appalled by sin and its delusive elements everywhere: The cry of a lost world--an intonation of despair Rising up from the depths of impenetrability; The infinite to the finite, out from dread eternity, Breathing subtly to the spiritual, the list’ning soul Answereth “deep unto deep.”

And responsive to the irresistible communion (Wond’rous affinity! mysterious, inscrutable union!) Impelled to consecrate all of life, and all that life e’er gave, To the cause of Christ, and by held and flood a world to save. Moved by pity for man’s fallen and suffering state, O’erwhelm’d in the vortex of a direful, impending fate, Man must be lifted up and placed upon the narrow way, More in the divine radiance and pure celestial ray Of God’s own light. And thus the Jesuit is impelled; By an undying enthusiasm of religious zeal He goes forth to the rescue, to alleviate and heal.

And deeply learned and skilled in every earthly lore, He gleans the gems of thought from the deep mines of every shore; Searches for knowledge down the long vistas of the past, Surmounting all impediments, winning the field at last.

Thus equipped, a diplomat, he is found near thrones of kings, In palaces and parliaments; his subtle influence brings Nations to the Church’s imperious, predominant feet: In her insatiable interest all things must bend and meet. With black cassock, the cross and rosary at his girdled side, He goes forth, the Church’s consecrated champion and her pride.

No distance is too great to stay his eager, tireless feet; Nor heat, nor biting cold, nor raging tempest, rain and sleet, Can deter him from his purpose. On his devoted head The elements beat in vain. Unsheltered and unfed, He is found in the lonely wilds of every land and zone, Fearless of every danger, oft suffering and alone. Braving disease, pestilence, and the martyr’s tragic death; Having no home, no wife, no country, only heaven in view, And the redemption of the heathen, a weary work to do; Sacrificing all desires of the weak and mortal frame, Sustained through hard years of toil by heaven’s quenchless flame.

Such was Jean de Brébœuf, the Ajax of the Huron tribe, A martyred hero, who all impediments, e’en death, defied In the pursuit of duty, the lost lonely wilds to save, Winning a crown of victory, and at last a martyr’s grave.

Over the far ocean the impassioned zealot came, Hot in the pursuit of duty, with heart and soul aflame; Stemming swift rivers along the rough and tortuous way, Pressing forward through the dense lone wilderness day by day, With soiled and tattered garments, and naked, bleeding feet, Bearing a weary burden, his necessities to meet. He sought, and found by Lake Huron’s vast and majestic side, The pagan Huron nation in all its savagery and pride-- A vast tract stretching from Lake Simcoe to the Georgian Bay, A scene of rustic loveliness in that strange time far away. Thirty thousand Hurons, in palisaded towns by scores, Built within the shadowy forest and along the shores; A strange people, the red Hurons, of some far, forgotten age; An unsolved mystery, a blank on history’s page!

Boldly entering the towns and wigwams, undismayed By barbaric savagery in threatening form arrayed; Through lines of spears and warclubs, tomahawks and flashing knives, Stained by the blood of foemen, red with a thousand lives!

Aye, he went with but the cross of the Saviour at his side, Raised a prayer to the Father, and to the red men cried, “Peace! our mission’s peace; we come in the Great Manitou’s name, To bid our red brothers war no more, but to enkindle a flame Of peace and friendship; for ’tis the Great Spirit’s loving will That his red children should war no more, that hate no more should fill Their hearts, and as brothers to abide in a lasting peace-- In seeking the ‘happy hunting grounds’ strife and war must cease.”

With Père Daniel, Lalemant, Raguenean, Gamier, and Davost, He built a mission house and chapel, watched by friend and foe, Thus raising a Christian altar where pagan orgies reigned, Upheld by a lofty purpose, by power divine sustained. Unwonted sounds and echoes woke the lonely forest aisles, The chant of ancient litanies down the weird, dim defiles; The pleading passionate prayer rose, swelled, and died away Down the vast corridors of the wilderness weird and gray.

Thus besought were savage tribes to espouse the sacred cause, To abandon their pagan usages and barbaric laws. The story of the Cross and God’s infinite love was told By the fearless Jesuits, and passionately unrolled. But it fell on stolid ears, and the dark, benighted mind Of the Huron nation. A stoic heathenism, all blind, Repelled the Cross, and in derision turned away With muttered imprecations; and threatenings day by day Fell on the unswerving servants of the altar and Cross, Counting all suffering but gain, and even life no loss, If the cause of Christ with the Huron nation should prevail. Then let evil, every danger, e’en hell itself assail, They would lay their lives, their all, at the Saviour’s sacred feet: For their red brothers’ redemption they would all torture meet.

For years they met with but discouragement, grief, and care, Scowls and menaces, distrust, and persecution everywhere; Fierce jealousies, stirred up by the tribal “medicine men”; A subtle pagan power, cunningly concealed, and when Their ascendancy was threatened, stirred the dark, benighted mind To acts of cruel violence--a superstition blind. Thus suffering hunger, thirst, cold, heat, almost in despair, And the powers of darkness combined; the spirit of the air Echoed demon laughter; up from the deeps it rose and fell; Up in derision from the very maw and counterscarp of hell; And the wolf howled down the phantom corridors of the night, And lost spirits shrieked, and all of good seemed put to flight.

But ’mid it all those devotees toiled on incessantly; As one they sought God’s help in prayer and pleading unity. Though scoffed and mocked, they importuned the Huron warriors still To espouse the Saviour’s cause and obey His loving will. And when the deadly pestilence subdued the nation’s pride, And pale death stalked among the sad wigwams far and wide, And a thousand braves were stricken in this disastrous hour, And a thousand maidens perished by its fell, destroying power. The aged and the children, too, were in hundreds swept away, And the Huron hearts were breaking ’mid the horrors of the day; And pitiful distress and helplessness reigned everywhere, And the nation bowed in mourning in the frenzy of despair.

’Twas then the Hurons realized the Jesuits’ noble worth, Learned to love their pale-faced brothers in that time of death and dearth; For moving ’mid the dying and the stricken night and day, Nursing, soothing, absolving, and bearing the dead away, Won they the Hurons, and the Saviour’s story they receive, Taught in their adversity to repent and to believe. Thus was that strange people redeemed and Christianized, And God’s cause established, and the Jesuits signalized. The Hurons sought war no more--’mid blessings of peace and love, Longed for Manitou, and “the happy hunting grounds above.”

But a scourge more dreadful now on the repentant nation fell: The unsparing Iroquois, with the malignancy of hell, Swept down upon the Hurons, caught by stealth, and unprepared. All, all that hideous slaughter met--not one, not one was spared. Though fighting sternly to the last, with the courage of despair, They could not stem that fierce onslaught--pale death was rampant there. Their palisaded towns were burned in rage by scores and scores, And exterminating war reigned round Lake Huron’s lovely shores.

Amid it all Brébœuf, of the Huron mission, stood With the gentle Lalemant, a brother supremely good; And they absolved and blessed, fearless of their impending fate, Caring for the wounded and dying, braving the foeman’s hate; Amid the dreadful carnage, surrounded by flashing knives, Red with the blood of the Hurons, red with a thousand lives!

Captives at last, by bloody hands borne to the torture post With hundreds more, and surrounded by a gibing, fiendish host, They met death by the most awful torture without a groan, Blessing e’en the hands that mangled and seared to the very bone. Aye, without a murmur, those steadfast souls bore the pain, Exhorting all to look to God, that they should meet again Where the cruel torture and life’s dread sufferings are o’er, Meet Manitou in endless life, where sorrow comes no more.

And thus perished those martyred, heroic, devoted souls For the cause of Christ; and as long as the grim ages roll Shall their immortal deeds and imperishable fame be sung, Till the last trump to waken the dead through all space be rung.

UNDER THE STARS.

I arise sometimes in the night-time, And go out ’neath the stars alone, In the dim silence of night-time, When the skies are tender of tone. In the holy silence of nature I calm my anxious soul, Sometimes by the hard day grown weary, And beyond my will to control.

And I go where the waves’ low murmur Soundeth ever along the dim shore, And I’m soothed by the voice of the waters, And peace cometh unto me once more When the winds are caressing the roses, And there stealeth an answering sigh From the dew-bespangled foliage To the wanderer passing by.

I stand on the bridge of the streamlet, Where we met in the long ago; Where we met, and where we two parted In the twilight’s silvery glow. I listen again for her coming, Though ’tis only an empty dream; All I hear is the night wind sighing, And the rippling of the stream.

Then I pass where the vale is sleeping, O’er the emerald moonlit hill, And gain the awesome shadows Of the forest deep and still. And through the still gloom and the distance I hear the faint, far-off call Of elfin and strange phantom voices-- On my ear they dreamily fall.

O holy silence of nature! I am calmed with a pure delight. Hush! for man’s voice would but mar The harmony of the night. All sinless the planets are glowing, Penetrating the vast, far voids Of the mystery of creation Beyond the lone asteroids.

Subdued, and again submissive To whatever’s in store for me, I strive to be uncomplaining, Though beset with adversity. And thus, when the spirit is weary, My strength kindly nature restores; Through her vast illimitable chamber My calm soul in ecstasy soars.

UNEXPLAINED.

There are many ways in this feverish life Where the rocks are grim and bare, With no soil for tender plants and flowers, Nor rain nor dew is there; Where the sterile rocks are bleak and bare, And the skies are shrouded and gray, With sweeping winds from a desolate sea, Where there’s never a summer day.

And a burning sun in a desert land, And the winter stern and cold, And the wandering feet without a home, And weary and poor and old; And the poor in heart where all love hath died, And the dreary, haunting years, And the friendship dead, and the broken home, And regret and pain and tears.

And the hopes that died, and the broken vows That severed far and wide, And the toilworn hands, and the sad unrest, And the loss on every side; And the favored ones ’neath sunny skies That dream there the hours away, And the struggling poor in barren lands, Where sad day follows day.

And the ships that sail over angry seas, And nevermore reach the shore; And the aching hearts, and the weary watch For the loved that come no more. Ah! I cannot still all these strange, sad thoughts, Nor stay these falling tears; The lonesome way is rough and long Through life’s uncertain years.

And at times in the solemn night-time still I sink by the hard way alone, With the voiceless silence around me, And my troubled rest a stone. There comes to me a glad thought through the gloom, That rest will the sweeter be When the weary burden is cast aside On the shores of eternity.

LIFE’S HIGHWAY.