Chapter 4

"Ring out, bells, ring! Sing, mountain, sing! The king is dead, long live the king! Now fast, now slow; now loud, now low, Send out your chimes across the snow.

"Old Year, adieu; welcome the New, The door stands open here for you. Come in, come in, the bells begin To falter in their merry din."

Then, as the great bells ceased to swing, two broke A silver coin, for luck in days to come, And though no tender words of love they spoke, Yet hearts speak best when most the lips are dumb.

_A GREATER THAN HE._

Baby sits upon the floor, Baby's scarce a twelvemonth old; Baby laughs, and _goo-goos_ o'er Memories how a babe of yore Humbled Glooskap bold.

Glooskap was a man of might, Skilled in magic, huge of limb; Giant, wizard, goblin, sprite, Ghost, witch, devil, imp of night, All had fled from him.

Then he questioned: "Can there be Further labors to be done? Breathes there one to equal me, Who before me will not flee?" Quoth a squaw: "Yes, one."

"Name him," angry Glooskap cried, "Baby," said she, "And be warned-- If you meddle, woe betide All your glory, all your pride! For you will be scorned,"

Baby sat upon the ground, Harming none, and sucked his thumb, Gazing with a look profound Upon Glooskap and around, Solon-wise, Sphinx-dumb.

Glooskap never married was, So he thought, like all his kind, That he knew the nursery laws Wholly, and with ease could cause Service prompt and blind.

Sweetly, the magician smiled, Like the summer sun, and said: "Hither, Baby." But the child, By the sweet smile unbeguiled, Only shook his head.

Like a bird among the trees, Singing, Glooskap spake once more: Baby listened to the glees, Sucked his thumb, and sat at ease Still upon the floor.

Thundering, the magician spoke: "Hither, Baby, I command!" Baby stirred not, only broke Into wailings that awoke All the desert land.

Mystic song and magic spell, Fit to raise the very dead, Fit to rule the imps that dwell In the deepest depths of Hell, Glooskap sang and said.

All was vain. Upon the floor Baby sat, and heard each lay, Listened close, and called for more, When each mystic song was o'er, But did not obey.

Then the baffled warrior wept; And the baby in delight, Sitting where a sunbeam slept, Laughed and crowed, and crowing kept, Till his foe took flight.

_LIFE IN NATURE_.

Life grows not more nor less; it is but force And only changes; Expended here, it takes another course, And ever ranges Throughout this circling universe of ours, Now quickening man, now in his grave-grown flowers.

Yet dwells life not alone in man and beast And budding flowers. It lurks in all things, from the very least Gleam in dark bowers Of the great sun, through stones, and sea, and air, Up to ourselves, in Nature everywhere.

Life differs from the soul. This is beyond The realms of science; God and mankind it joins in closest bond, And bids defiance To Death and Change. By faith alone confessed, It dwells within our bodies as a guest.

The germ of life sleeps in the aged hills And stately rivets, And wakes into the life our hearts that thrills And in leaves quivers. The universe is one great reservoir From which man draws of thinking life his store.

And, therefore, is it that the weary brain, That seeks communion With Nature in her haunts, finds strength again In that close union: She is our mother and the mind distressed Drinks a new draught of life at her loved breast.

_WINTER AND SUMMER_.

Come Winter, merry Winter, Rejoice while yet you may, For nearer, ever nearer, Fair Summer draws each day, And soon the tiny snowdrops Shall waken from their sleep, And, mossy banks from under, The modest violets peep.

The apple trees shall scatter Their buds at Summer's feet, And with their fragrant odors Make every zephyr sweet; While Nature, of wild roses, And lilies frail and white, Shall make a wreath for Summer, And crown her with delight.

Forth from the smiling heavens Shall fall the gentle rain, The earth shall feel her presence And welcome her with grain; The birds shall come and twitter, And build amid the boughs, So Winter, merry Winter, While yet you may, carouse.

We love you, merry Winter, You and the joys you bring, And loud and long your praises Throughout the world we sing; But Summer, gentle Summer, Comes shyly through the glade, And draws all hearts to love her, So fair is she arrayed.

We love the merry sleighing, The swinging snowshoe tramp, While in the clear, cold heavens The calm moon holds her lamp,

We love the breathless coasting. The skating and the games Played amid shouts of laughter, Around the hearth-fire flames.

But Summer, winsome Summer, Holds greater stores of bliss, When all the land awakens, And blossoms at her kiss; We soon shall feel her presence, And breathe her perfumed breath, Then, Winter, dear old Winter, We will not mourn your death.

_DAUNTLESS_.

So he is dead. A strange, sad story clings About the memory of this mindless man; A tale that strips war's tinsel off, and brings Its horrors out, as only history can.

Within a peaceful town he dwelt in youth, His sister's hero and his mother's pride-- The soul of honor, the abode of truth, Beloved and reverenced on every side.

He had a sweetheart, lovely as the day, A gentle maid, who knew not half his worth, Who loved the sunshine, and who shrank away From sorrow, and forever followed mirth.

They were but young, and hope's mirage upreared In their warm hearts its rosy palaces; They deemed them real, and longing, only feared Life was too short for all the promised bliss.

And then came war, blood-spattered, cruel as hell, And clamored with its iron voice for life-- Mother and sister and the wedding-bell. The hero left, and hastened to the strife.

In vain he struck for liberty, and fell A captive, in his earliest affray; Then, threatening death, fierce Haynau bade him tell Where and how strong the patriot forces lay.

"I will not tell," he cried, with eyes aflame, "Do what thou wilt with me, I will not bring Doom to my land, and soil my honored name: From these sealed lips thou shalt no secret wring."

His captor only laughed. "He croweth well, Go, bring his mother and his sister here, And they shall die, if he refuse to tell!" The hero answered not, but paled with fear.

The brutal soldiers to the brutish court Dragged the weak women, and they stood o'er-awed, Each to the other clinging for support, And praying in her misery to God.

The fell decree the shrinking creatures heard, And long in vain essayed to make reply, For their weak speech could find no fitting word To bear the burden of their agony.

Tears came at last. The brutal Haynau smiled, But all too soon. Weeping, the mother said: "Be not thy country's, traitor, oh! my child! Too old am I the loss of life to dread."

Then spake the sister: "Brother mine, be brave! Life hath no charms, if with dishonor bought; Think not of us, our bleeding country save-- Life is so short at best, death matters naught."

The hero made no answer, but he drove His nails into his palms, and choked for breath; His captor bade the soldiery remove The noble women--and they went to death.

"He hath a sweetheart," Haynau said again: "Go, bring her hither;" and they brought her there, Weeping with fear, and wailing low with pain, Amid the golden ringlets of her hair.

Then from the earth she sprang, frenzied with fear, Into her lover's arms, and kissed his cheek, And strok'd his hair, and called him "love" and "dear," And prayed him for her sake to yield and speak.

He thrust her from him, clasped her yielding form In his lithe arms again, and then once more Repulsed her gently, and the deadly storm That raged within him smote him to the floor.

Groping, he rose and spoke. None knew his voice: It sounded as though coming from a tomb. "Oh! darling, it must be--I have no choice-- Thou would'st not have me seal my country's doom?"

Haynau made sign. "Away with her," he cried. They seized their prey, but life to her was sweet, And, bounding from the soldiers at her side, Screaming she crouched, and clasped her lover's feet.

"Oh! for the love you bear me, save my life! Tell what he asks, and we will fly this place Into some unknown land, where all this strife Shall be forgotten in love's sweet embrace."

He made no answer save by bending low, And kissing her damp brow. They raised their prize, And bore her to the door, as pale as snow, With all her soul outwelling from her eyes.

But here she turned, calm in her death despair, And in a voice that trembled with its hate, "My dying curse be on you everywhere, False love," she cried, "who send me to my fate."

There was a silence, then a fusilade Of musketry, a woman's scream and moan, Then silence. That was all, and in the shade Of night the hero laughed. Reason had flown.

_A CHILD'S KISS_.

Sweet is the maiden's kiss that tells The secret of her heart; Holy the wife's--yet in them dwells Of earthliness a part;

While in a little child's warm kiss Is naught but heaven above, So sweet it is, so pure it is, So full of faith and love.

'Tis like a violet in May That knows nor fear nor harm, But cheers the wanderer on his way With its unconscious charm.

'Tis like a bird that carols free, And thinks not of reward, But gives the world its melody Because it is a bard.

THE GRAVE AND THE TREE.

Of double depth they made her grave, And covered it with massive stone, And there, where silvery birches wave, They left her sleeping all alone.

These words were chiselled on her tomb: "This grave, bought for eternity, Even to and through the day of doom, And ever, shall unopened be."

For years the passing stranger saw The epitaph of Caroline, And wondered, with a shuddering awe, That it could dare the wrath divine.

Time is of God. He does not need To work his purpose in an hour: Years came and went, and then a seed, Borne downwards by a summer shower,

Fell gently on the scanty earth. Among the heaped-up stones that lay, And soon a tiny birch had birth, And grew in stature day by day.

The sun, the shower, the passing wind, All helped the youthful tree to grow; Its little roots ran far to find Subsistence in the depths below.

Years passed, until at last the tree Sundered the stones, and made the grave Yawn wide, that hoped eternally The ravages of Time to brave.

Vain was the exercise of skill To seal the grave of Caroline; And vain is every human will That strives to break the law divine.

A MOTHER'S JEWELS.

The daughter of a hundred earls, No jewels has with mine to mate, Though she may wear in flawless pearls The ransom of a mighty state.

Hers glitter for the world to see, But chill the breast where they recline: My jewels warmly compass me, And all their brilliancy is mine.

My diamonds are my baby's eyes, His lips, sole rubies that I crave: They came to me from Paradise, And not through labors of the slave.

My darling's arms my necklace make, 'Tis Love that links his feeble hands, And Death, alone, that chain can break, And rob me of those priceless bands.

NOTES.

EXPLANATORY NOTES.

THE CAPTURED FLAG.

The incident described in these verses took place during the unsuccessful siege of Quebec by Admiral Sir William Phipps, in 1690. Admiral Phipps, after capturing Port Royal, now Annapolis, Nova Scotia, sailed up the St. Lawrence, in October, arriving at Quebec on the 5th. Frontenac, then Governor of New France, was taken almost by surprise, yet, when summoned to surrender, he haughtily refused to do so, using the words attributed to him in the ballad. Phipps was beaten off, leaving with the French the cannon of his troops and this flag, which had been shot away, and which was picked up by a Canadian, who swam out after it. A medal was struck in France, and a church erected in Quebec, in honor of this victory.

PÈRE BROSSE.

A full account of this pious legend will be found in Mr. J. Lemoine's _Chronicles of the St. Lawrence_, pages 242, 243, and 244. Father de La Brosse was, at the time of his death, a priest at Tadousac, at the mouth of the Saguenay, and about seventy miles below the Isle aux Coudres, where he celebrated the first mass, in 1765. He died at midnight, on the 11th April, 1782, and, so says the legend, his death was preceded and followed by miraculous occurrences. He is said to have foretold it, and to have bidden his people seek Père Compain on the Isle aux Coudres, and bring him to perform the funeral offices. There would be a storm, which they were not to heed, for he guaranteed them against harm, and they were to find Père Compain awaiting them. All came true: Père Brosse was found dead at midnight with his head on the altar of his chapel; the men set out, and though the waves rolled mountains high on every side, there was peace where their canoe floated. They found Père Compain awaiting them, for he had been supernaturally informed of his colleague's death, and he went with them to Tadousac. All the bells of the missions where Père Brosse had labored are said to have been rung without hands that night.

L'ORDRE DE BON TEMPS.

This company of _Bon Vivants_ was formed in 1606, during the sojourn of Champlain and de Poutrincourt at Port Royal. An account of its organization and doings will be found in Parkman's _Champlain and His Associates_, Chapter iv.

CHAMPLAIN.

This poem is a _resumé_ of the life of him whom Parkman calls "The Æneas of a destined people." "Yon fair town" alludes to Quebec, which Champlain founded July 3rd, 1608. His defiance of Admiral Kirkt took place in 1628, and was successful for a season, but a second summons from Kirkt next summer led to the first surrender of Canada to England. Champlain died on Christmas Day, 1635, after twenty-seven years of labor for the country in which his name can never be forgotten.

THE PRIEST AND THE MINISTER.

In the opening paragraphs of the third chapter of Parkman's _Champlain and His Associates_, will be found an account, of which these verses are little more than a paraphrase. When de Monts was commissioned to settle New France, the Roman Catholic clergy insisted that they be given charge of the souls of the heathen in the new land. De Monts was, himself, a Huguenot, and brought his own ministers with him, so that the ship that sailed to Acadia in 1604 bore with it clergy of both sects. This was the cause of ceaseless quarrels. "I have seen our _curé_ and the minister," says Champlain, "fall to with their fists on questions of faith. I cannot say which had the more pluck, or which hit the harder; but I know the minister complained to the Sieur de Monts that he had been beaten." Sagard, the Franciscan friar, gives an account of the death of two of the disputants and of their burial in one grave. I have taken the liberty of making them the central figures of the dispute, though, actually, they were subordinates.

PILOT.

Pilot was one of a number of dogs sent from France to Montreal shortly after its foundation, in order to assist the brave colonists in their warfare with the savages. She and her offspring were invaluable in detecting ambuscades. An account of her useful life will be found in Parkman's _Jesuits in North America_, chap. xviii.

THE SECRET OF THE SAGUENAY.

Although one legend, and, perhaps, the best substantiated one, asserts that Roberval was assassinated in Paris, there is another to the effect that, fired by the recitals of Cartier of untold wealth to be found in the Saguenay district, he sailed up the river of that name, and was never heard of again. This legend will be found in the _Illustrated History of Canada_.

JULES' LETTER.

The date of this letter would be about 1670. From 1665 to 1673, bachelors in Canada underwent a martyrdom of great severity, and Jules' fear lest he find himself married in spite of himself is hardly an exaggeration. From 1665 to 1673, about one thousand girls were sent out from France to find husbands in Canada. Each couple married was given an ox, a cow, a pair of swine, a pair of fowls, two barrels of salted meat, and eleven crowns in money. Girls under sixteen and youths under twenty were given twenty livres when they married, and were encouraged to marry at fourteen and eighteen respectively. To such an extent was this rage for marriage carried that, it is said, a widow was married before her first husband's body had been consigned to the grave. Large bounties were paid to parents having from ten to fifteen children, and the slightest sign of courtship between the unmarried officers and ladies of Quebec and Montreal, was chronicled in official documents and transmitted to France. For further particulars, the reader is referred to Parkman's _The Old Regime in Canada_, chapter xiii.

THE OAK.

The two villages referred to are Hochelaga and Ville Marie, now Montreal. The latter place was founded by Maisonneuve in 1642. In Sir William Dawson's _Fossil Men_ is a picture of Hochelaga as seen by Cartier, with an oak tree near it. This oak is sketched from one in the McGill University grounds, and it needs but a little stretch of the imagination to consider them identical, though actually this is not so. The poem traces the history of Montreal from its foundation up to the present time. Jacques Cartier's visit was made in October, 1535, when he was well received by the Hochelagans. When Champlain came, in 1611, Hochelaga had disappeared. The reference to the flood occurs again in "Nelson's Appeal for Maisonneuve." The incident took place in 1642, and Maisonneuve actually fulfilled his vow and bore a heavy cross to the mountain top, where it was planted. Dollard, with seventeen Frenchmen and fifty Indians, by heroic self-sacrifice, in 1660, saved Canada from destruction by the Iroquois. Vaudreuil surrendered Canada to the English on September 8th, 1760. He had been driven to Montreal, and was surrounded by 17,000 men, under General Amherst. The Americans took Montreal in 1775, and were defeated at Chateauguay, October 26th, 1813, and at Chrysler's Farm, November 11th, of the same year. In both cases, the Canadians were greatly outnumbered.

NELSON'S APPEAL FOR MAISONNEUVE.

This is supposed to be spoken by Horatio, Lord Nelson, whose statue, standing on Jacques Cartier Square, by the magnificent river St. Lawrence, is, with the exception of the bronze image of our Queen, the only one in the city of Montreal. In five years, Montreal will see its 250th anniversary. Shall it be said that we have forgotten its founder, when that day comes? The pages of Parkman may again be referred to for an explanation of any points in this poem. _The Jesuits in North America_, chapter xv., contains a long account of the foundation of Montreal, and subsequent pages chronicle the life of Maisonneuve.

THE SPIRIT WIFE.

This is a free paraphrase of a prose tale by Israel G. Owen.

LACHINE.

Misled by the information given him by the Indians, and also by the size of the St. Lawrence, Jacques Cartier [La Salle?] gave to Lachine its present name, thinking that by it a western passage to China was possible. The Canadian Pacific Railway has furnished this passage by land, and now a large portion of China's merchandise comes overland to Montreal for shipment to Europe.

DE SALABERRY AT CHATEAUGUAY.

During the Anglo-American War of 1812, the brunt of the fighting fell upon the Canadian Volunteers, and one of their most notable exploits is that which I have striven to portray in this poem. Hearing of the advance of the Americans, De Salaberry, with 400 Voltigeurs, entrenched himself at the junction of the Chateauguay and Outarde rivers, not many miles from Montreal. On the morning of October the 26th, this little band of heroes was attacked by 3,500 Americans. In spite of the most determined bravery, the Canadians would have been overcome by sheer force of numbers, but for the ruse described in the poem, assisted by a rapid discharge of musketry from new ambuscades. The Americans withdrew, and Lower Canada was saved.

TENNYSON.

This poem was written shortly after the appearance of "Sixty Years After," by Lord Tennyson, and while the critics on both sides of the Atlantic were, for the most part, tearing him to pieces.

A GREATER THAN HE.

Glooskap is to the Penobscot Indians much what Hiawatha was to those of Longfellow's wonderful poem. He is supposed to be making arrows in a long hut, waiting for the time, when, like Barbarossa, he shall come to save his countrymen. The only time that he was defeated was when he strove to conquer a baby. The story will be found in C. G. Leland's _Algonquin Legends_.

DAUNTLESS.

This is a true episode of the Hungarian rebellion of 1849. The young man's name was Ferenz Renyi, and he died recently in the asylum at Buda-Pesth. Haynau was attacked in Barclay's Brewery, London, in 1850, for cruelties of this kind, and barely escaped with his life from the infuriated employes.

End of Project Gutenberg's Fleurs de lys and other poems, by Arthur Weir