Chapter 2

I've toiled in the fierce heat of summer Under skies like a great dome of gold, And have tramped, growing number and number, In winter through snowstorm and cold. Yet the love in my heart was far hotter, The fear of my soul far more chill, As my thoughts crossed the wild waste of water To your little home on the hill.

But now Father Time in a measure Has reconciled me to my fate, For I know he will bring my dear treasure Back into my arms soon or late. And, besides, every evening, when, weary, I lie on my soft couch of pine, Sleep wafts me again to my dearie, And your heart once more beats against mine.

You never have heard of such doings As those that are going on here; We've nothing but weddings and wooings From dawn till the stars reappear. For the king, gracious monarch, a vessel Has sent, bearing widows and maids Within our rough bosoms to nestle, And make us a home in the glades.

They are tall and short, ugly and pretty, There are blondes and brunettes by the score: Some silent and dull, others witty, And made for mankind to adore. Some round as an apple, some slender-- In fact--so he be not in haste-- Any man with a heart at all tender Can pick out a wife to his taste.

Now, darling, don't pout and grow jealous, I still am a bachelor free, In spite of the governor's zealous And extra-judicial decree, Commanding all men to be married In less than two weeks from this date, And promising all who have tarried Shall feel the full strength of his hate:

In spite of his maddening order, That none in the country may trade With the tribes on our side of the border, Who is not a benedict staid; In spite of a clause, far the sorest, That none past his twentieth year, And single, shall enter the forest On any pretext whatsoe'er.

Now, you know I was ever a rover, Half stifled by cities or towns, Of nature--and you--a warm lover, Wooing both in despite of your frowns, So you well may imagine my sorrow When fettered and threatened like this-- Oh! Marie, dear, pack up to-morrow, And bring me back freedom and bliss.

If you do not, who knows but some morning I'll waken and find a decree Has been passed, that, without any warning, Has wedded some woman to me? Oh! Marie, chère Marie, have pity; You only my woes can assuage; I'm confined, till I wed, to the city, And feel like a bird in a cage.

Then come, nor give heed to the billows That tumble between you and Jules. I know a sweet spot where lithe willows Bend over a silvery pool, And there we will dwell, dear, defying Misfortune to tear us apart. My darling, come to me, I'm dying To press you again to my heart.

_THE OAK._

Last of its race, beside our college There stands an Oak Tree, centuries old, Which, could it voice its stores of knowledge, Might many a wondrous tale unfold. It marked the birth of two fair towns, And mourned the cruel fate of one, Yet still withstands grim Winter's frowns, And glories in the Summer sun.

Jacques Cartier passed, its branches under, Up yonder mount one autumn day, And viewed, with ever-growing wonder, The scene that spread beneath him lay. He was the first from Europe's shore To pass beneath the Oak Tree's shade, The first whose vision wandered o'er Such boundless wealth of stream and glade.

Beneath his feet a little village Lay, like a field-lark in her nest, Amid the treasures of its tillage, The maize in golden colors dressed. Years passed; and when again there came A stranger to that peaceful spot, Gone was the village and its name, Save by a few gray-heads, forgot.

But soon beneath the Oak, another, And sturdier village took its place; One that the gentle Virgin mother Has kept from ruin by her grace. She saved it from the dusky foes Who thirsted for its heroes' blood, And when December waters rose About its walls she stilled the flood.

What noble deeds and cruel, stranger Than aught in fiction ere befell, What weary years of war and danger That village knew, the Oak might tell. Perchance, brave Dollard sat of yore Beneath its very shade, and planned A deed should make for evermore His name a trumpet in the land.

Perchance, beneath its gloomy shadows De Vaudreuil sat that bitter day When round about him, in the meadows Encamped, the British forces lay; And as he wrote the fatal word That gave an Empire to the foe, The Old Oak's noble heart was stirred With an unutterable woe.

The army of a hostile nation Once since hath entered _Ville Marie_, But we avenged that desecration At Chrystler's farm and Chateauguay-- Peace! peace! 'tis cowardly to flout Our triumphs in a cousin's face: That page was long since blotted out And Friendship written in its place.

Beloved of Time, the Old Oak flourished While at its foot its little charge, An eaglet by a lion nourished, Grew mighty by the river marge; Till, where the deer were wont to roam, There throbs to-day a nation's heart, Of wealth and luxury the home, Of learning, industry and art.

No longer now the church bells' ringing Fills all the little town with life, Its loud-tongued, startling clangor bringing Young men and aged to the strife. No longer through the midnight air The savage hordes their war-cries peal, As rushing from their forest lair They meet the brave defenders' steel.

Long has the reign of war been ended And Commerce crowned, whose stately fleet Brings ever treasures vast and splendid To lay them humbly at her feet. And now her eager sons to-day Have crossed the wild, north-western plain, And made two oceans own her sway Held captive by a slender chain.

What further Time may be preparing For this fair town, the years will tell, But while her sons retain their daring, Their zeal and honor, all is well. Still, as the seasons come and go, Long may they spare the Old Oak Tree In age as erst in youth to throw Protection over _Ville Marie_.

_NELSON'S APPEAL FOR MAISONNEUVE_.

"Silent I have stood and borne it, hoping still from year to year That the pleading voice of justice you would some day wake to hear. But beneath the soulless present you have sunk the glorious past, Till I cannot bear it longer--you must learn the truth at last. Shame upon you, shameless city, heart of this great land of yours, That the world should say you care not if your founder's name endures! Shame upon you, that no statue stands within your greatest square To commemorate the hero who so often battled there! Who long years ago sprang lightly from his pinnace to the beach, And amid the virgin forests, spreading far as eye could reach, Knelt and prayed, his people with him, while the prophet-priest foretold How their growth should be as great as was the mustard seed's of old.

"Have you ceased to care, already, how that noble little band Toiled, and fought with man and nature that their sons might rule the land, Braving winter's cold and famine, summer's hot and stifling breath, Danger in unnumbered forms; and in each form a cruel death, Slain by skulking, coward foemen, now one moment in the corn Singing some sweet Norman ditty, and the next one overborne? Comrades, you have mothers, sisters, wives whom you would die to save, Think, then, of the noble ones who claim your tribute to the brave; Tender women, timid children, crouching at the barricade, Pallid, trembling, stained with blood, yet nerved to give the needed aid, Staunching deadly wounds, and wiping death-dews from a loved one's brow, While their fathers, husbands, brothers fought and won they scarce knew how!

"Think of him among them toiling! hear his simple, trusting prayers! See him, stern, unyielding, hopeful, with a thousand daily cares, Sharing his companions' hardships, cheering there and chiding here, With a head to rule them wisely, and a heart that knew not fear, Sleeping with his armor on him and his weapons by his bed, Ready ever for the foes that, like the shadows, came and fled. See him fighting in the forest with a host that seeks his blood! Hear him praying to the Virgin to restrain the rising flood, Vowing that if she would heed him and preserve the little town, He himself would bear a cross and plant it on Mount Royal's crown! True crusader, in whose heart there never dwelt one sordid thought, Guardian of the Virgin's city: this is he you honor not.

"Of our Queen a stately statue stands upon Victoria Square, In its hand a wreath of laurel, in that wreath a tiny pair Nesting year by year uninjured, heedless of the passing throng, Living symbols of a reign that guards the weak from every wrong. Loyalty upraised that statue, and were it the only one That your city had erected still the deed were nobly done. But to honor me, my brothers, one whose blood was never shed On your soil or for your country, heaps but shame upon my head, Not because you might not praise me--I may merit your esteem-- But because you place me first where he alone should stand supreme. Shame upon you, to forget him and remember such as I! Shame upon you, if your ears are heedless still to honor's cry!

"True, I tamed a haughty foeman at Trafalgar and the Nile, But I had a nation's wealth and numbers at my back the while. His was one long fight with scarcely seven score to do his will, With a host of open foes and secret foes, more deadly still; Foes in every bush and hollow, foes behind his monarch's throne, Stabbing with one hand extended seemingly to clasp his own. Yet he triumphed, and behold you! now a country growing fast, With a glorious future breaking through the darkness of the past, With a host of stout hearts toiling day and night to make you great, And a glittering roll of heroes worthy of a mighty state. Yet you cannot he a nation if your children never hear Aught of those whose blood has won the land that they should hold most dear.

"Can you wonder that the rains have beaten on my statued form? Can you marvel that the winter shakes me with its fiercest storm? Ah! not age it is but shame that makes me look so worn and old, Makes me hang my head and tremble lest the bitter truth be told. It is murmured by the maples, it is whispered by the wind, Till I cannot but imagine it is heard by all mankind, How your children, from gay boyhood until tottering age, behold Gallant Maisonneuve forgotten and less worthy me extolled. Oh! my comrades, if you love me, lighten the disgrace I feel, Lend your ready hands to aid me, bend your hearts to my appeal: Raise a statue to the founder of this great, historic town, Chomedey de Maisonneuve, or pity me and take mine down."

RED ROSES.

_TO ONE WHO LOVES RED ROSES._

_ When our lives were in their springtime and our souls were in the bud, While the watchful world was silent, heeding not such childish love, I poured forth for thee my heart-thoughts in a sweet, unthinking flood, Like a bird that carols freely in the grove.

And thou heardst them, half unconscious of the import that they bore, Till the years unlocked the chambers of thy stainless, maiden heart And thou badest my songs be silent. They are silent evermore, But their echoes from my soul will not depart.

Yet the love songs that I lilted in those by-gone childhood days, Surely, them thou wilt not silence, let them be a memory dear Of the happy days of childhood when unchecked I sang thy praise, While with thee I looked to heaven and deemed it here. _

_THREE SONNETS._

THE MAIDEN.

The melody of birds is in her voice. The lake is not more crystal than her eyes, In whose brown depths her soul still sleeping lies. With her soft curls the passionate zephyr toys, And whispers in her ear of coming joys. Upon her breast red rosebuds fall and rise, Kissing her snowy throat, and, lover-wise, Breathing forth sweetness till the fragrance cloys.

Sometimes she thinks of love, but, oftener yet, Wooing but wearies her, and love's warm phrase Repels and frightens her. Then, like the sun At misty dawn, amid the fear and fret There rises in her heart at last some One, And all save love is banished by his rays.

THE WIFE.

There stands a cottage by a river side, With rustic benches sloping eaves beneath, Amid a scene of mountain, stream and heath. A dainty garden, watered by the tide, On whose calm breast the queenly lilies ride, Is bright with many a purple pansy wreath, While here and there forbidden lion's teeth Uprear their golden crowns with stubborn pride.

See! there she leans upon the little gate, Unchanged, save that her curls, once flowing free, Are closely coiled upon her shapely head, And that her eyes look forth more thoughtfully. Hark to her sigh! "Why tarries he so late?" But mark her smile! She hears his well-known tread.

THE MOTHER.

Beneath the eaves there is another chair, And a bruised lily lies upon the walk, With the bright drops still clinging to its stalk. Whose careless hand has dropped its treasure there? And whose small form does that frail settee bear? Whose are that wooden shepherdess and flock, That noble coach with steeds that never balk? And why the gate that tops the cottage-stair?

Ah! he has now a rival for her love, A chubby-cheeked, soft-fisted Don Juan, Who rules with iron hand in velvet glove Mother and sire, as only Baby can. See! there they romp, the mother and her boy, He on her shoulders perched and wild with joy.

LONG AGO.

The sun was swimming in the purple tide, His golden locks far floating on the sea, When thou and I stole beachward, side by side, To say adieu and dream of joys to be. The ebbing waves were whispering to the strand Amid the rocks a tender, sweet good-bye-- Ah! Well that night could we two understand What bitter grief was in their ceaseless cry.

The salt wind blew across the rank marsh grass, And laid its chilling, fingers on our pulse. Sea nettles lay in many a shapeless mass, Half hidden, in the garnet hills of dulse. The awkward crabs ran sideways from our path, And starfish sprawled face downward in the mud; While, token of some bleak December's wrath, A wreck lay stranded high above the flood.

Few were our words. Love speaks from heart to heart, Nor needs that rude interpreter the tongue. A few short hours and fate would bid us part, No more to stray the weedy rocks among. We dared not trust our bitter thoughts to speech. For speech had raised the floodgates of our tears; And so we walked in silence on the beach With the wild billows wailing in our ears.

How beautiful thou wast! Thy snowy gown, Whose rustle made sweet music, part revealed Thy perfect form. Thy thoughtful eyes and brown, Beneath their drooping lashes half concealed, Swam in a sea of tears. Thy tresses played Wild wanton with the wind, and kissed each cheek, That flushed and paled, till one had well nigh said. Thy very blood did think and love and speak.

We sat within the shelter of the boat. That, buried in the sand for half its length, Before the black-browed storm no more would float Nor like a gull defy the tempest's strength. We spoke of pleasures past, of joys to be When we should meet again nor ever part. I faltered forth my deathless love for thee, And in thy tearful silence read thy heart.

We looked upon the setting of the sun; We marked the summer twilight fade away; We saw the star-worlds rising, one by one, And, stooping, kiss the surface of the bay. Then sitting in the moonlight, each by each, I bent and kissed away thy lingering tears; While ever plunged the billows on the beach And sent their dreary cadence to our ears.

The sun was swimming in the purple tide, His golden locks far floating on the sea, When I stole forth yestre'en and sat beside The stranded wreck to dream again of thee. Across my cheek I felt the marsh wind sweep, Still called the sea along the darkening shore, Again the changeless stars began to peep; Naught save thyself had changed since days of yore.

O! happy period of my early youth! When Love was master, Reason but a slave, When friends seemed heroes, woman crystal truth, Success the certain portion of the brave: Come back, come back and give me ere I die The pure ideal of my life again! In vain I plead. Time's snowy ashes lie Cold on the hearth-stone of my aged brain.

_AT CHATEAUGUAY._

Memory gleams like a gem at night Through the gloom of to-day for me, Bringing dreams of a summer bright At Chateauguay.

Summer sleeps in the ripening corn, Sunlight glitters on wood and lea, Scent of flowers on the air is borne At Chateauguay.

Swiftly rushes the river by, Through the lake to the far-off sea, Full of light as a maiden's eye, At Chateauguay.

Stands a house by the river side, (Weeds upspring where the hearth should be), Only its tottering walls abide At Chateauguay.

Birds are singing the live-long day, Trembling, stoopeth an aspen tree. Eager to hear what the wind will say At Chateauguay.

Still the sunlight around me falls, Still in fancy I seem to see Two who stand on the crumbling walls At Chateauguay.

Once more wanders a brown-eyed maid Up the rough, country road with me, Swinging her hat by its slender braid, At Chateauguay.

Once for a moment more we stay Under the tattling aspen tree-- Birds are sweetly lilting to-day At Chateauguay.

Tree, thou art dear for that sweet tryst, Dear, for the maiden's sake, to me Is each spot that her feet have kissed At Chateauguay.

_A BIRTHDAY_.

Fifteen years have come and gone, Maiden since thy large, brown eyes Opened first and looked upon Wintry English skies.

Fifteen treasure ships they were, Sailing on life's sunlit sea, Bearing frankincense and myrrh Sent from heaven to thee:

Fifteen pilgrims, old and gray, Mounted upon moments fleet, Who have seen thee but to lay Pleasure at thy feet:

Fifteen maids who, like a queen, Decked thee, Sweet, with beauty rare, Till the world hath never seen Maiden half so fair.

And a sixteenth year to-day Brings a wreath of budding hours, Saying: "Let not one decay; All must grow to flowers."

All have not the self-same needs; Loving smiles are life to some, Others but by kindly deeds. To perfection come.

Some are quickened by a tear, Some by hopes and pleasures dead; Take them, Bright Eyes, without fear, God is overhead.

_THE LOVERS._

With silken tresses floating free, A dark-eyed maiden wanders Alone beside the murmuring sea, And of her lover ponders.

The fisher boats at anchor ride, The summer moon is waking; Its beams of silver on the tide In rippling flakes are breaking.

The golden sands in murmurs speak, Her dainty foot that presses, The salt sea wind upon her cheek Is lavish of caresses.

Afar upon a winding stream A youth is softly rowing; Above his head the star-worlds gleam, And bright the moon is glowing.

The trees are swaying to and fro, Their shadowy boughs extending, And leaf-born music, sweet and low, Is with the night-wind blending.

Far off, where meadows kiss the stream, A golden light is winking: Upon the waves its soft rays gleam, From crest to hollow sinking.

Upon the youth and maiden's heart The lamp of love is shining, Though distance holds them both apart, Their souls are intertwining.

_THE SEA SHELL._

'Tis a dainty shell, 'tis a fragile shell At my feet that the wild waves threw, And I send it thee, that its lips may tell In thine ear that my heart is true.

It will tell thee how by the sunlit sea Pass the hours we were wont to share. On its pearl-pink lips is a kiss for thee That my own loving lips placed there.

In a lady's hand it will snugly lie, 'Tis as thin as a red rose-leaf, Yet it holds the seagull's sorrowing cry, And the roar of the tide-lashed reef.

In its ivory cave, though the mighty sea May find room, and to spare, to move, Yet this same sea shell that I send to thee Is too small to contain my love.

_A JANUARY DAY._

King Winter sleeps. His daughter, Spring, His sceptre steals away, And, laughing, bids fair Nature bring For once a perfect day.

Bright glows the sun in azure skies, And balmy blows the breeze, On gayer wing the sparrow flies, And softly sway the trees.

The seasons run like some great stream That to the ocean flows, The waves that _here_ in sunshine gleam Bound _there_ in mountain snows:

And, as where darkling waters steal, Drear walls of rock between, Yet in their depths a gem reveal That glows with sunny sheen.

So in this blustering month that bears The banner of the year, Such days as this with balmy airs Amid the storms appear.

It is but meet that thy birthday Should open bright and warm, And into darkness fade away Without a cloud or storm.

_REMEMBRANCE_

Alone I pace the path we walked last year. Dost thou remember it? Then everywhere The wheat-fields shimmered in the summer glare, But now the moonbeams sparkle, silver clear, On swollen stream and meadows dun and drear, While, with the myriad blossoms that they bear, The cherry trees perfume the evening air, And gaunt and cold the ruined house stands near.

The aspens whisper to the passing breeze. I hear the night-hawk's scream, the pipe of frogs, The baying of the distant village dogs, The lapping waves, the rustle of the trees. And every sound is musical to me, For every sound is a sweet song of thee.

_IN ABSENCE._

Sleep, dearest, sleep beside the murmuring sea; Sleep, dearest, sleep, and bright dreams compass thee. My sleepless thoughts a guard of love shall be Around thy couch and bid thee dream of me. Sleep, Bright Eyes, sleep.

Sleep, dearest, sleep, the slumber of the pure; Sleep, dearest, sleep, in angels' care secure. Evil itself thy beauty would allure To cease from ill and make thy joyance sure. Sleep, Bright Eyes, sleep.

Sleep, dearest, sleep; in slumber thou art mine; Sleep, dearest, sleep; our souls still intertwine. Yon radiant star that on thy couch doth shine Bears from my lips a kiss to lay on thine. Sleep, Bright Eyes, sleep.

_LOVE GUIDES US._

Love guides our bark, and we have naught to fear. We are the world ourselves, and as we glide Upon the stream of life, if Love but steer, We care not how tempestuous the tide.

Thy head leans on my shoulder, and my arm Is round thee clasped. Thine eyes upturn to mine, So full of faith the future feels their charm Blunting Fate's dart that threatens joy of thine.

O Love! thy tresses wind about my sense, Thy glances melt my soul, and thy ripe lips Seem morning roses, red and dewy, whence The bee of love a draught of nectar sips.

Float on, float on upon the crystal tide, Our company these snowy swans that seem Our mirrored souls, pure love personified-- Float on, nor ever waken from our dream.

_THE LOVER'S APPEAL._

Tell me when you'll wed me? Sweetest, name the day: Hope has well nigh fled me, Joy has slipped away. Dearest, why this strange delay? Must I sigh till we are gray? With a smile, "Wait awhile, We are young," you say.

Do you know the reason Why the nightingale Through the drear night season Pipes her tuneful tale? She was, once, like you, a maid, Who her wedding day delayed, And her swain, All in vain, For her favor prayed.

She had been a maiden Fair to look upon, Sweet as breezes laden With the scent of dawn. But her lover prayed that she Rest not till eternity. Heaven heard, And this bird, She was doomed to be.

Can you read the moral, Of this mournful tale? Sweetheart, if we quarrel, To a nightingale I will change you, though I weep, You shall sing and never sleep. With the owl You shall prowl Where the shades lie deep.