Chapter 3

Oh weary heart! I have wandered lone Close to Niagara's awful throne; I've gazed till his roar and fearful might Have dulled mine ear and blinded my sight; I've heard the hoarse and terrible song Of the mountain waves as they rolled along, And plunged down the watery precipice steep, Like white-robed furies that whirl and leap. I thought of my child's fair form and face Grasped in their stormy, cruel embrace, The tender arms that have clasped me oft In dying agony flung aloft, The delicate limbs a helpless prey To their maddened rage, or demon play; And I turned aside in anguish wild. Oh, wretched Father! My child, my child! But I must be calm and act a part, Nor show the fierce grief that rends my heart; A Seneca chief must learn to hide His pangs 'neath a mask of stoic pride.

VII.

MINAHITA. _Prayer._

Hear me, Thou great and glorious One! Protector of my race! Whom in the far-off Spirit Land I shall soon see face to face; I ask Thee, humbly bending Before Thy Mighty Throne, To cleanse me from all stain of sin And make me soon thine own: My people guard and bless, All wrongs and ills redress, Their enemies subdue, And for the youth, the life, I freely yield, Give them peace, plenty, victory in the field, And honest hearts and true.

VIII.

TOLONGA. _Duet_

My daughter, let me press thee Close to my yearning heart, Ah! once more softly bless thee Ere we for ever part! I adjure thee not to falter In the trial now so nigh, But, as victim on the altar, A Sachem's daughter die.

MINAHITA.

Father, courage will be given In that awful hour supreme, When all earth's ties are riven, And I float down death's dark stream.

_Both Voices._

Yes, courage not to falter In the trial now so nigh, But, as victim on the altar, A Sachem's daughter die.

IX.

OREIKA.

One lingering, last, farewell embrace I take!

MINAHITA.

Yes, one for thine and one for Osseo's sake.

OREIKA.

How solace him beneath his trial sore?

MINAHITA.

Tell him I loved him well, but honor more.

_Chorus--Voices approaching._

The moon is gilding the Cataract's brow, And tinging his foam-robe as white as snow,-- Like silver it gleams 'Neath the bright moon beams, Whilst soft and slow The waters flow; For his lovely bride he is waiting now!

OREIKA.

The hour is come! despair--despair!

TOLONGA.

Girl, such idle words forbear!

MINAHITA.

In the Spirit Land we shall meet again, Where unknown are parting and grief and pain.

X.

OREIKA.

Ah! the cruel rite is over And the fearful Spirit Lover Clasps the dear pearl of our race; Like the blushing summer flower, Or the clouds of sunset hour, She has passed, and left no trace!

DOLBREKA.

Thou wast not there? Then listen, child, Unto a tale of sorrow wild, That has o'erwhelmed with gloom and grief Heart of warrior brave and chief: Rose from the banks the sound of song, Lights were gleaming the trees among, All were awaiting the hour of fate When the white canoe and precious freight From shore swept out and swiftly sped Into the boiling rapid dread--

OREIKA.

Ah me! in that last moment drear How looked she?

DOLBREKA.

Tranquil, without fear, But steered her course with quiet mien, And the stately grace of a maiden Queen. Then rose beneath the moon's full rays Glad voices, blent in love and praise, Till, sudden as arrow from the bow, Flashed 'mid the rapid's dark, swift flow Another bark--it held--oh grief! Tolonga, our brave, Beloved chief.

OREIKA.

What! her father, didst thou say? Our chief--our Sachem?

DOLBREKA.

Aye! 'Neath his strong arm the bark swift flew; It soon o'ertook the _White Canoe_, And then, amid our outcries wild The eyes of father and of child Met in one long, last, loving look, That ne'er each other's glance forsook Till they glided o'er Niagara's steep, And plunged into the darkness deep.

_Final Chorus._

Ah! never since first with thundering roar Niagara shook the trembling shore, Hath earth bestowed him such offering bright, As he's clasped to his mighty breast to-night.

OUR CANADIAN WOODS IN EARLY AUTUMN.

I have passed the day 'mid the forest gay, In its gorgeous autumn dyes, Its tints as bright and as fair to the sight As the hues of our sunset skies; And the sun's glad rays veiled by golden haze, Streamed down 'neath its arches grand, And with magic power made scene and hour Like a dream of Faerie Land.

The emerald sheen of the maple green Is turned to deep, rich red; And the boughs entwine with the crimson vine That is climbing overhead; While, like golden sheaves, the saffron leaves Of the sycamore strew the ground, 'Neath birches old, clad in shimmering gold, Or the ash with red berries crowned.

Stately and tall, o'er its sisters all, Stands the poplar, proud and lone, Every silvery leaf in restless grief Laments for the summer flown; While each oak and elm of the sylvan realm, In brilliant garb arrayed, With each other vie, 'neath the autumn sky, In beauty of form and shade

When wearied the gaze with the vivid blaze Of rich tints before it spread-- Gay orange and gold, with shades untold Of glowing carmine and red-- It can turn 'mid the scene to the sombre green Of the fir, the hemlock, the pine, Ever-keeping their hue, and their freshness, too, 'Mid the season's swift decline.

Though the bird's sweet song, that the summer long Hath flowed so sweet and clear Through the cool, dim shades of our forest glades, No longer charms the ear, A witching spell, that will please as well As his glad notes, may be found In the solemn hush, or the leaves' soft rush, As they thickly strew the ground.

For, though they tell of summer's farewell, Of their own decay and doom, Of the wild storm-cloud and the snow's cold shroud, And the days of winter's gloom, The heart must yield to the power they wield,-- Alike tender, soothing, gay-- The beauties that gleam and that reign supreme In our woods, this autumn day.

A CANADIAN SNOW-FALL.

Come to the casement, we'll watch the snow Softly descending on earth below, Fairer and whiter than spotless down Or the pearls that gleam in a monarch's crown, Clothing the earth in its robe's bright flow; Is it not lovely--the pure white snow?

See, as it falls o'er the landscape wide, How kindly it seeks all blots to hide, Shrouding each black, unsightly nook, The miry banks of the little brook, Robing bare branches in ermine white, Making all lovely, spotless and bright.

In the farm-yard see with what magic skill Its marvels of beauty it works at will: The well-house now is a fairy hall, And the rough, rude fence is a marble wall; While gates and hillocks where barn fowl ranged To ramparts and bastions now are changed.

How softly it falls--nor breath, nor sound, Though four feet high it should pile the ground, Though it change the face of wood and field, With skill that no mortal could ever wield; Yet, as it falls, not a murmur low-- The noiseless, silent, white-winged snow!

See, in the rays of the morning bright, How it blushes beneath the sun's red light; How its diamond crystals gleam and shine, Clearer than those of Golconda's mine; Though the wintry winds may with anger blow, Surely all love the beautiful snow.

A CANADIAN SUMMER EVENING.

The rose-tints have faded from out of the West, From the Mountain's high peak, from the river's broad breast. And, silently shadowing valley and rill, The twilight steals noiselessly over the hill. Behold, in the blue depths of ether afar, Now softly emerging each glittering star; While, later, the moon, placid, solemn and bright, Floods earth with her tremulous, silvery light.

Hush! list to the Whip-poor-will's soft plaintive notes, As up from the valley the lonely sound floats, Inhale the sweet breath of yon shadowy wood And the wild flowers blooming in hushed solitude. Start not at the whispering, 'tis but the breeze, Low rustling, 'mid maple and lonely pine trees, Or willows and alders that fringe the dark tide Where canoes of the red men oft silently glide.

See, rising from out of that copse, dark and damp, The fire-flies, each bearing a flickering lamp! Like meteors, gleaming and streaming, they pass O'er hillside and meadow, and dew-laden grass, Contrasting with ripple on river and stream, Alternately playing in shadow and beam, Till fullness of beauty fills hearing and sight Throughout the still hours of a calm summer's night.

THE RECOLLECT CHURCH.*

[* In process of demolition when this poem was written. The Recollect Friars purchased the ground on which the church in question was built in 1692, and on it they constructed a temporary chapel. The actual edifice, however, was not erected till about the year 1706. The order is now extinct. After the conquest their property was confiscated by the Government, and subsequently exchanged for St. Helen's Island, then belonging to Baron Grant. For a time the Recollect Church served as a place of worship for both Protestants and Catholics, and for many years was exclusively devoted to the use of the Irish Catholics.]

Quickly are crumbling the old gray walls, Soon the last stone will be gone, The olden church of the Recollects, We shall look no more upon; And though, perchance, some stately pile May rise its place to fill, With carven piers and lofty towers, Old Church, we shall miss thee still!

Though not like Europe's ancient fanes, Moss-grown and ivied o'er Bearing long centuries' darkened stains On belfry and turrets hoar-- A hundred years and more hast thou Thy shadow o'er us cast; And we claim thee in our country's youth As a land-mark of the past.

Thou'st seen the glittering Fleur-de-lys Fling out its folds on high From old Dalhousie's* fortress hill, Against the morning sky; And, later, the gleam of an English flag From its cannon-crowned brow,-- That flag which, despite the changing years, Floateth proudly o'er us now.

Thou'st seen the dark-browed Indians, too, Thronging each narrow street, In their garb so strangely picturesque, Their gaily moccassined feet; And beside them gentle helpmates stood, Dark-hued, with soft black eyes, In blanket robes, with necklets bright-- Large beads of brilliant dyes.

Thou'st seen our city far outgrow The bounds of its ancient walls, In beauty growing and in wealth, And free from early thralls, Till round Mount Royal's queenly heights, That stretch toward the sky, In pomp and splendor, beauteous homes Of luxury closely lie.

Within this time-worn portal prayed The sons of differing creeds, And unto God, in various ways, Made known their various needs. Better dwell thus in brotherly love, All seeking one common weal, Than stir the stormy waters of strife Through hasty and misjudged zeal.

And for many years the exiles lone, Who landed upon our shore From Erin's green and sunny isle, Did here their God adore; And laid their aching sad hearts bare To His kind, pitying gaze, And prayed to Him in this new strange land For better and brighter days.

And humble Recollect Friars here Their matins recited o'er, And glided with noiseless, sandalled feet O'er the chapel's sacred floor; Again, at the close of day they met, Amid clouds of incense dim And the softened, rays of tapers' blaze, To sing their evening hymn.

They and their order have passed away From among their fellow-men. Little recked they for earth's joys or gains, On heaven bent their ken. The lowly church that has borne their name So faithfully to the last, Linked with our city's young days, like them, Will henceforth be of the past.

[* Levelled a few years after the Conquest. It occupied that part of East Montreal now known as Dalhousie Square]

WELCOME TO OUR CANADIAN SPRING.

We welcome thy coming, bright, sunny Spring, To this snow-clad land of ours, For sunshine and music surround thy steps, Thy pathway is strewn with flowers; And vainly stern Winter, with brow of gloom, Attempted for awhile To check thy coming--he had to bow To the might of thy sunny smile.

A touch of thy wand, and our streams and lakes Are freed from his tyrant sway, And their clear blue depths in ripples of gold Reflect back the sun's bright ray; Whilst e'en the rude rocks that their waters fret Put on mosses green and bright, And silent, deep homage render up now, Sweet Spring, to thy magic might.

And what words could tell half the wond'rous change Thou mak'st in our forest bowers, Replacing the snow with soft velvet sward, Cold crystals with glowing flowers; Clothing the leafless, unsightly trees In rich garb of satin sheen, And robing the meadows and woodlands wide In thine own soft tender green.

And the insect life that thy warm breath wakes Now people earth and air; And the carolling birds have come back to dwell In the charms of thy presence fair. Need we wonder all hearts with joyous beat Watch the changes thou dost bring, And, with smiles of gladness, welcome thee To our land, bright, sunny Spring?

WINTER IN CANADA.

Nay tell me not that, with shivering fear, You shrink from the thought of wintering here; That the cold intense of our winter-time Is severe as that of Siberian clime, And, if wishes could waft you across the sea, You, to-night, in your English home would be.

Remember, no hedges there now are bright With verdure, or blossoms of hawthorn white; In damp, sodden fields or bare garden beds No daisies or cowslips show their heads; Whilst chill winds and skies of gloomy hue Tell in England, as elsewhere, 'tis winter too.

Away with dull thoughts! Raise your brooding eyes To yonder unclouded azure skies; Look round on the earth, robed in bridal white, All glittering and flashing with diamonds bright, While o'er head, her lover and lord, the sun, Shines brightly as e'er in summer he's done.

In a graceful sleigh, drawn by spirited steed, You glide o'er the snow with lightning speed, Whilst from harness, decked with silvery bells, sweet showers the sound on the clear air swells; And the keen bracing breeze, with vigor rife, Sends quick through your veins warm streams of life.

Or, on with your snow-shoes, so strong and light, Thick blanket-coat, sash of scarlet bright, And, away o'er the deep and untrodden snow, Through wood, o'er mountain, untrammelled to go Through lone, narrow paths, where in years long fled, The Indian passed with light active tread.

What! dare to rail at our snow-storms, why Not view them with poet's or artist's eye? Watch each pearly flake as it falls from above, Like snowy plumes from some spotless dove, Clothing all objects in ermine rare, More sure than the bright robes which monarchs wear.

Have you not witnessed our glorious nights, So brilliant with gleaming Northern lights, Quick flashing and darting across the sky While far in the starry heavens on high The shining moon pours streams of light O'er the silent earth, robed in dazzling white.

There are times, too, our woods show wond'rous sights Such as are read of in "Arabian Nights," When branch and bough are all laden with gems Bright as those that deck Eastern diadems; And the sun sheds a blaze of dazzling light On ruby and opal and diamond bright.

Only tarry till Spring on Canadian shore, And you'll rail at our Tenters, then, no more; New health and fresh life through your veins shall glow, Spite of piercing winds--spite of ice and snow, And I'd venture to promise, in truth, my friend, 'Twill not be the last that with us you'll spend.

THE MAPLE TREE.

Well have Canadians chosen thee As the emblem of their land, Thou noble, spreading maple tree, Lord of the forest grand; Through all the changes Time has made, Thy woods so deep and hoar Have given their homesteads pleasant shade, And beauty to their shore.

Say, what can match in splendor rare Thy foliage, brightly green, Thy leaves that wave in summer's air, Glossy as satin sheen, When Spring returns the first art thou, On mountain or in vale, With springing life and budding bough, To tell the joyous tale.

In Autumn's hours of cheerless gloom, How glowing is the dye Of the crimson robe thou dost assume, Though it only be to die; Like the red men who, long years ago, Reposed beneath thy shade, And wore a smiling lip and brow On the pyre their foes had made.

And e'en in Winter fair art thou, With many a brilliant gem, That might adorn fair lady's brow, Or deck a diadem; And better than thy beauty rare, Or shade thou givest free, The life-stream of thy branches fair Thou gen'rous, brave old tree!

Warmly we pray no deed of harm May fright thy peaceful shade, May'st thou ne'er see in war's alarm Contending foes arrayed, But, smiling down on peasants brave, On honest tranquil toil, Thy branches ever brightly wave, Above a happy soil.

AN AFTERNOON IN JULY.

How hushed and still are earth and air, How languid 'neath the sun's fierce ray-- Drooping and faint--the flowrets fair, On this hot, sultry, summer day! Vainly I watch the streamlet blue That near my cottage home doth pass, No ripple stirs its azure hue, Still--waveless, as a sheet of glass

And if I woo from yonder trees A breath of coolness for my brow, They've none to give--not e'en a breeze Rustles amid their foliage now; Yes, hush! there stirred a leaf, but no, Tis only some poor, panting bird, With silenced note, head drooping low, That 'mid the shady green boughs stirred.

Oh dear! how sultry! vain to seek To while the time with pleasant book, Soon drowsy head and crimsoned cheek Oblivious o'er its pages droop-- And motion is beyond my power, While breathing this hot, scorching air, It wearies me to raise the flowers, That lie so close beside my chair.

See stealing, wearied from their play, The flushed and languid children come, Saying that on so hot a day They'd much prefer to stay at home. Themselves upon the ground they throw, Cheeks pillowed on each rounded arm-- And fall asleep soon, murmuring low, And wondering "why it is so warm?"

If yonder patient sheep and kine, Close shrinking from the sun's hot flame, Had man's gift--"power of speech divine," They surely would repeat the same-- Each blade of grass, each fainting flower, Would whisper to the shrubs and trees, How much they longed for evening's hour, With cooling breath and grateful breeze.

THE FALL OF THE LEAF.

Earnest and sad the solemn tale That the sighing winds give back, Scatt'ring the leaves with mournful wail O'er the forest's faded track; Gay summer birds have left us now For a warmer, brighter clime, Where no leaden sky or leafless bough Tell of change and winter-time.

Reapers have gathered golden store Of maize and ripened grain, And they'll seek the lonely fields no more Till the springtide comes again. But around the homestead's blazing hearth Will they find sweet rest from toil, And many an hour of harmless mirth While the snow-storm piles the soil.

Then, why should we grieve for summer skies-- For its shady trees--its flowers, Or the thousand light and pleasant ties That endeared the sunny hours? A few short months of snow and storm, Of winter's chilling reign, And summer, with smiles and glances warm, Will gladden our earth again.

THE OLD TOWERS OF MOUNT ROYAL OR VILLE MARIE.

On proud Mount Royal's Eastern side, In view of St. Lawrence's silver tide, Are two stone towers of masonry rude, With massive doors of time-darken'd wood: Traces of loop-holes are in the walls, While softly across them the sun-light falls; Around broad meadows, quiet and green, With grazing cattle--a pastoral scene.

Those towers tell of a time long past, When the red man roamed o'er regions vast, And the settlers--men of bold heart and brow-- Had to use the sword as well as the plough; When women (no lovelier now than then) Had to do the deeds of undaunted men, And when higher aims engrossed the heart Than study of fashions or toilet's art.

A hardy race from beyond the sea Were those ancient founders of Ville Marie! The treacherous Sioux and Iroquois bold Gathered round them as wolves that beset a fold, Yet they sought their rest free from coward fears; Though war-whoops often reached their ears, Or battle's red light their slumbers dispel,-- They knew God could guard and protect them well.

Look we back nigh two hundred years ago: Softly St. Lawrence bright waters flow, Shines the glad sun on each purple hill, Rougemont, St. Hilary, Boucherville, Kissing the fairy-like isle of St Paul's, Where, hushed and holy, the twilight falls, Or St. Helen's, amid the green wave's spray, All lovely and calm as it is today.

No villas with porticos handsome, wide, Then dotted our queenly mountain's side; No busy and populous city nigh Raised steeples and domes to the clear blue sky; Uncleared, unsettled our forests hoar Unbridged out river, unwharfed each shore; While over the waves of emerald hue Glided, lightly, the Indian's bark canoe.

It was in those towers--the Southern one-- Sister Margaret Bourgeoys, that sainted nun, Sat patiently teaching, day after day, How to find to Jesus the blessed way, 'Mid the daughters swarth of the forest dell, Who first from her lips of a God heard tell, And learned the virtues that woman should grace, Whatever might be her rank or race.

Here, too, in the chapel-tower buried deep, An Indian _brave_ and his grand-child sleep.* True model of womanly virtues--she-- Acquired at Margaret Bourgeoys' knee; He, won to Christ from his own dark creed, From the trammels fierce of his childhood freed, Lowly humbled his savage Huron pride, And amid the pale-faces lived and died.

With each added year grows our city fair, The steepled church, and spacious square, Villas and mansions of stately pride Embellish it now on every side; Buildings--old land marks--vanish each day, For stately successors to make way; But from change like that may time leave free The ancient towers of Ville Marie!

[* Subjoined are their epitaphs, still to be seen in the tower we speak of:

Ici reposent Les restes mortels de François Thoronhiongo, Huron, Baptisé par le Révérend Père Brébeuf.

Il fut par sa piété et par sa probité, l'exemple des chrétiens et l'admiration des infideles; il mourut âgé d'environ 100 ans, le 21 avril 1690.

Ici reposent Les restes mortels de Marie Thérèse Gannensagouas de la Congrégation de Notre Dame.

Après avoir exercée pendant treize ans l'office de maitresse d'école à la montagne, elle mourut en reputation de grande vertu, âgée de 28 ans, le 25 novembre 1695.]

JACQUES CARTIER'S FIRST VISIT TO MOUNT ROYAL.

He stood on the wood-crowned summit Of our mountain's regal height, And gazed on the scene before him, By October's golden light, And his dark eyes, earnest, thoughtful, Lit up with a softer ray As they dwelt on the scene of beauty That, outspread, before him lay.