Chapter 4

Like a sea of liquid silver, St. Lawrence, 'neath the sun, Reflected the forest foliage And the Indian wigwams dun, Embracing the fairy islands That its swift tide loving laves, Reposing in tranquil beauty Amid its sapphire waves.

To the eastward, frowning mountains Rose in solemn grandeur still, The glittering sunlight glinting On steep and rugged hill; Whilst in the far horizon, Past leafy dell and haunt, Like a line of misty purple, Rose the dim hills of Vermont.

Then Cartier's rapt gaze wandered Where, starred with wild flowers sweet, In its gorgeous autumn beauty, Lay the forest at his feet. With red and golden glory All the foliage seemed ablaze Yet with brightness strangely softened By October's amber haze.

Around him stretched the mountain Ever lovely--ever young-- Graceful, softly undulating, By tall forest trees o'erhung; 'Twas then his thought found utterance, The words "_Mont Royal_" came, And thus our Royal Mountain Received its fitting name.

THE WHITE MAIDEN AND THE INDIAN GIRL.

"Child of the Woods, bred in leafy dell, See the palace home in which I dwell, With its lofty walls and casements wide, And objects of beauty on every side; Now, tell me, dost thou not think it bliss To dwell in a home as bright as this?"

"Has my pale-faced sister never seen My home in the pleasant forest green, With the sunshine weaving its threads of gold Through the boughs of elm and of maples old, And soft green moss and wild flowers sweet, What carpet more fitting for maidens' feet?"

"Well, see these diamonds of price untold, These costly trinkets of burnished gold, With rich soft robes--my daily wear-- These graceful flower-wreaths for my hair; And now, at least, thou must frankly tell Thou would'st like such garb and jewels well."

"The White Lily surely speaks in jest, For has she not seen me gaily dressed? Bright beads and rich wampum belts are mine, Which by far these paltry stones outshine, Whilst heron plumes, fresh flowers and leaves, Are fairer than scentless buds like these."

"But, Forest Maiden, to this my home What sights--what sounds of beauty come; Pictures of loveliness--paintings rare-- All the charms that art can bestow are there, With ravishing music of harp and song, Sweet notes that to gifted souls belong."

"The wild birds sing in our shady trees, Mingling their notes with the vesper breeze; The flow of waters, the wind's low moan, Have a music sweet that is all their own; Whilst surely no tints or colors rare Can with those of the sky and the wood compare."

"But what of the winter's cheerless gloom When nature sleeps in a snowy tomb, The storm clouds brooding over head, Thy song-birds gone--thy wild-flowers dead? With silence and gloom where'er you roam, What then, what then, of your forest home?"

"We sing gay songs round our winter fires, Or list the tales of our gray-haired sires; When the hunting path has claimed our braves, We pray to the God of winds and waves; Or, on snow-shoes swift, we love to go Over the fields of untrodden snow."

"Then, I cannot tempt thee here to dwell, Oh! wayward child of the forest dell, To leave thy wandering, restless life, With countless dangers and hardships rife For a home of splendor such as this, Where thy days would be a dream of bliss?"

"No, sister, it cannot my heart engage, I would worry to death of this gilded cage And the high close walls of each darkened room, Heavy with stifling, close perfume; Back to the free, fresh woods let me hie, Amid them to live,--amid them to die."

THE TRYST OF THE SACHEM'S DAUGHTER.

In the far green depths of the forest glade, Where the hunter's footsteps but rarely strayed, Was a darksome dell, possessed, 'twas said, By an evil spirit, dark and dread, Whose weird voice spoke in the whisperings low Of that haunted wood, and the torrent's flow.

_There_ an Indian girl sat silent, lone, From her lips came no plaint or stifled moan, But the seal of anguish, hopeless and wild, Was stamped on the brow of the forest child, And her breast was laden with anxious fears, And her dark eyes heavy with unshed tears.

Ah! a few months since, when the soft spring gales With fragrance were filling the forest dales; When sunshine had chased stern winter's gloom, And woods had awoke in their new-born bloom, No step had been lighter on upland or hill Than her's who sat there so weary and still.

Now, the silken ears of the tasseled maize Had ripened beneath the sun's fierce blaze, And the summer's sunshine, warm and bright, Had been followed by autumn's amber light, While the trees robed in glowing gold and red, Their fast falling leaves thickly round her shed.

A Sachem's daughter, beloved and revered, To the honest hearts of her tribe endeared By her goodness rare and her lovely face, Her innocent mirth and her artless grace; Wooed oft by young Indian braves as their bride, Sought by stern-browed chiefs for their wigwam's pride.

Heart-free, unwon, she had turned from each prayer, And thought but of smoothing her raven hair; Of embroidering moccasins, dainty, neat, With quills and gay beads for her tiny feet; Or skilfully guiding her bark canoe O'er St. Lawrence's waves of sparkling blue.

Alas for the hour, when in woodlands wild The white man met with the Sachem's child, And she wondering gazed on his golden hair, His deep blue eyes, and his forehead fair, And his rich soft voice fell low on her ear, And became to her heart, alas! too dear.

Well trained was he in each courtly art That can please and win a woman's heart; And many a girl of lineage high Had looked on his wooing with fav'ring eye: Inconstant to all, in hall or in bower, What chance of escape had this forest flower?

Soon, ah! very soon, he tired of her smile, Her dusky charms and each sweet, shy wile; And yet it was long ere, poor trusting dove, Her faith was shaken in the white man's love; And now one last tryst she had asked of him In this haunted glade in the forest dim.

He had lightly vowed, as such men will do, To the place and hour that he would be true; She had waited since the dawn broke chill, Till the sun was setting behind the hill; But for him, amid scenes of fashion gay, All thought of his promise had passed away.

"I will wait for him here," she softly said, "Yes, wait till he comes," and her weary head Drooped low on her breast, and when the night, On noiseless pinions had taken its flight, She looked at the sunrise, with eyes grown dim, And murmured: "I'll wait here for death or him."

It was death that came, and with kindly touch He stilled the heart that had borne so much; To the _Manitou_ praying, she passed away With the sunset clouds of another day,-- No anger quickened her failing breath, Patient, unmurmuring, even in death.

For days they sought her, the sons of her race, In deep far-off woods, in each secret place, Till at length to the haunted glade they crept, And found her there as in death she slept. They whispered low of the spirit of ill, And buried her quickly beside the hill.

That year her false lover back with him bore A radiant bride to his native shore. And, with smiling triumph and joy elate, Ne'er gave one thought to his dark love's fate; But an All-seeing Judge, in wrath arrayed, Shall avenge the wrongs of that Indian maid.

A PLEA FOR OUR NORTHERN WINTERS.

"Oh, Earth, where is the mantle of pleasant emerald dye That robed thee in sweet summer-time, and gladdened heart and eye, Adorned with blooming roses, graceful ferns and blossoms sweet, And bright green moss like velvet that lay soft beneath our feet?"

"What! am I not as lovely in my garb of spotless white? Was young bride in her beauty ever clothed in robe as bright? Or, if you seek for tinting warm, at morn and evening hour, You'll find me bathed in blushes bright as those of summer flower."

"But, Earth, I miss the verdure of thy woods and forests old, The waving of their foliage, casting shadows o'er the wold, The golden sunbeams peering 'mid the green leaves here and there, And I sigh to see the branches so cheerless and so bare."

"But oft they're clothed in ermine to the sight and touch more fair Than the costly robing monarchs for regal garments wear, Whilst at times the glitt'ring branches with jewels are ablaze, The Frost King's pearls and diamonds flashing back the light's clear rays."

"Well, I grieve to see thy rivers, thy lakes and mountain streams, That in summer rippled gaily beneath the suns' glad beams, As light barks glided swiftly o'er their azure waves at will, Held now in icy barriers that guard them cold and still."

"But, see their glassy bosom, what scene could be more bright? How gaily o'er the surface darts the skater, strong and light; And happy, cheerful voices ring out from shore to shore, And forms are clearly mirrored on that dazzling crystal floor."

"Ah, Earth, I cannot listen to thy soft, persuasive voice, Though the pleasures thou can'st offer may make other hearts rejoice, For with love and fond regret I recall each cloudless day, Spent with friends in sunny rambles--when the whole world seemed at play."

"Why, the time for pleasant converse is the winter's stormy night, Its long and quiet evenings, with fire and tapers bright, The soothing strains of music, laughter, jest and happy song,-- Yes! the dearest of all pleasures to the winter-time belong."

"I yield! Oh, Earth, thou hast thy charms, I grant it freely now, In winter's sterner hours, as when the spring-buds deck thy brow, So, a truce to idle grieving o'er summer beauties fled, Our northern winters we'll accept with grateful hearts instead."

RICH AND POOR.

'Neath the radiance faint of the starlit sky The gleaming snow-drifts lay wide and high; O'er hill and dell stretched a mantle white, The branches glittered with crystal bright; But the winter wind's keen icy breath Was merciless, numbing and chill as death.

It clamored around a handsome pile-- Abode of modern wealth and style Where smiling guests had gathered to greet Its master's birth-day with welcome meet; And clink of glasses and loud gay tone, With song and jest, drowned the wind's wild moan.

Yet, farther on, another abode Its pillared portico proudly showed. From its windows high flowed streams of light, Mingling with outside shadows of night; And the strains of music rapid, gay-- Told well how within sped the hours away.

Steal but one glance at that magic scene, And long you will spell-bound gaze, I ween, On mirrors and flowers, and paintings old, And side-boards heaped with vessels of gold; Proud, stately men and women most fair, Glitt'ring in toilets, marvellous, rare.

Sharp grief may torture many a heart, But its pangs are hid with wond'rous art; Breasts may harbor hate, envy or guile, But all is concealed 'neath the studied smile; And carelessly gay is each well-trained face, As the dancers flash past with magic grace.

Not far away, down yon narrow lane, Where poverty herds with guilt and pain, Are _homes_ where the wind finds entrance free, Searching each cranny with savage glee, And freezing the blood of those within, Through their wretched garments, scant and thin.

List to the music that meets the ear! No sweet strains of _Strauss_ will greet you here, But the moan of sickness, the feeble wail Of suff'ring childhood--of mothers pale, The groan of despair, or, alas, still worse! The blasphemous jest, or fierce, deep curse.

See! on yon board is their banquet spread, Coarse broken remnants of mouldy bread; No cheerful flame in the fire-place bare To temper the cold of the biting air, Or the chill of the snow on the rotting floor, Drifting beneath the ill-closed door.

O, woman, one gem from those that deck Thy taper fingers, white brow or neck; Young girl, a rose from thy glossy hair, One inch of that lace so costly and rare, Would give food and heat, and cheerful light To that wretched home, for at least one night.

Revellers met round the festive board, A hot house fruit from your dainty hoard, The price of one draught of that wine, so old That it seems as precious as liquid gold, Would bring joy to more than one aching breast, And smiles to lips unused to such guest.

Children of fashion, children of wealth, Who hear harsh truths, as it were, by stealth, An hour will come to all who live Of their stewardship here strict account to give Before the Great Judge, wise, stern and pure, Who will justice mete to both rich and poor.

Well for you then if kind word and deed, Or generous alms to those in need, Have marked the course of your life's brief dream, They'll plead for you in that hour supreme, Outweigh past errors, and justice move To the side of mercy and pitying love.

BENEATH THE SNOW.

'Twas near the close of the dying year, And December's winds blew cold and drear, Driving the snow and sharp blinding sleet In gusty whirls through square and street, Shrieking more wildly and fiercely still In the dreary grave-yard that crowns the hill.

No mourners there to sorrow or pray, But soon a traveller passed that way: He paused and leant against the low stone wall, While sighs breathed forth from the pine-trees tall That darkly look down on the silent crowd Of graves, all wrapped in a snowy shroud.

Solemn and weird was the spectral scene-- The tombstones white, with low mounds between, The awful stillness, eerie and dread, Brooding above that home of the dead, While Christmas fires lit up each hearth And shed their glow upon scenes of mirth.

Silent the weary wayfarer stood-- The spot well suited his pensive mood, And severed friendships, bright day-dreams flown, Thronged on his thoughts in that moment lone. "Yes, happiness-hope," he murmured low, "All buried alike beneath the snow."

"O, for the right to lay down the load I've borne so long on life's dreary road, Heavily weighing on heart and brain, And as galling to both as a convict's chain;-- No more its strain shall I tamely bear But join the peaceful sleepers there."

His head on the old wall drooped more low, Whilst faster came down the sleet and snow, Sharply chilling the blood in his veins, Racking his frame with rheumatic pains; "No matter," he thought, "I'll soon lie low, Calm--quiet enough--beneath the snow."

Ah! hapless one, thus thine arms to yield When nearly won, perchance, is the field. After long struggling to lose at last The price of many a victory past, Of many an hour of keen, sharp strife, Mournfully spent in the war of Life.

But, hark! on high sound the Christmas bells, Of hope to that mourner their chiming tells, Of the sinless hours of childhood pure, Of a God who came all griefs to cure; And, leaving, he prayed: "O my Father and Friend, Grant me strength to be faithful to the end!"

OUR MOUNTAIN CEMETERY.

Lonely and silent and calm it lies 'Neath rosy dawn or midnight skies; So densely peopled, yet so still, The murmuring voice of mountain rill, The plaint the wind 'mid branches wakes, Alone the solemn silence breaks.

Whatever changes the seasons bring,-- The birds, the buds of joyous spring, The glories that come with the falling year The snows and storms of winter drear,-- Are all unmarked in this lone spot, Its shrouded inmates feel them not.

Thoughts full of import, earnest and deep, Must the feeling heart in their spirit steep, Here, where Death's footprints meet the sight: The long chill rows of tombstones white, The graves so thickly, widely spread, Within this city of the Dead.

Say, who could tell what aching sighs, What tears from heavy, grief-dimmed eyes, Have here been shed in silent woe, Mourning the cold, still form below; Or o'er past harshness, coldness, hate, Grieving, alas! too late--too late!

Oh, man, vain dreamer of this life, Seeking 'mid restless toil and strife For wealth, for happiness, for fame, Thirsting to make thyself a name, See, unto what thy course doth tend, Of all thy toils--there is the end.

Woman, of grace or beauty proud, Seeking alone gay fashion's crowd,-- Thine aim, admiring looks to win, E'en at the price of folly or sin, That beauty now to thee so dear, Would'st thou know its fate? Look around thee, here.

But not alone such lessons stern May we within the grave-yard learn: 'Tis here the servant wise and good, Who loyal to his trust hath stood, Will joyously at length lay down The heavy cross to receive the crown.

And hope, sweet messenger of God, Poised lightly 'bove the charnel sod, With upturned brow and radiant eyes, Pointing unto the distant skies, Whispers: "Oh, weary child of care, Look up! thy heavenly home is there!"

MONUMENT TO IRISH EMIGRANTS.

It will be in the recollection of many of our readers that during the famine years of 1847 and 1848 there was an unusual emigration from Ireland to Canada and the United States. Numbers of those who thus left their native land expired from ship fever, caused by utter exhaustion, before they reached the American continent; others only arrived there to die of that fatal disease. The Canadian Government made extensive efforts to save the lives of the poor emigrants. A large proportion were spared, but at Montreal, where the Government erected temporary hospitals, on an immense scale, upwards of 6000 of these poor people died. Their remains were interred close to the hospitals, at a place that is now mainly covered with railway buildings, and in close proximity to the point whence the Victoria Bridge projects into the St. Lawrence. All traces of the sad events of that disastrous period would have been obliterated but for the warm and reverential impulses of Mr. James Hodges, the engineer and representative of Messrs. Peto, Brassey & Betts in Canada. Through his instrumentality, and by his encouragement, the workmen at the bridge came to the determination of erecting a monument on the spot where the poor Irish emigrants were interred. An enormous granite boulder, of a rough conical shape, weighing 30 tons, was dug up in the vicinity, and was placed on a base of cut stone masonry, twelve feet square by six feet high. The stone bears the following inscription: "To preserve from desecration the remains of 6000 emigrants who died from ship fever in 1847 and 1848 this monument is erected by workmen in the employment of Messrs. Peto, Brassey, & Betts, engaged in the construction of the Victoria Bridge, 1859." Several addresses were delivered on the occasion, and in the course of that made by the Bishop of Montreal he alluded in feeling terms to the many good deeds for which the Dame of his friend, Mr. James Hodges, will be gratefully remembered in Canada. Thanks to the latter, the plot of ground on which the monument is raised is set apart for ever, so that the remains of those interred there will henceforth be sacred from any irreverent treatment.

THE EMIGRANTS' MONUMENT AT POINT ST. CHARLES.

A kindly thought, a generous deed, Ye gallant sons of toil! No nobler trophy could ye raise On your adopted soil Than this monument to your kindred dead, Who sleep beneath in their cold, dark bed.

Like you they left their fatherland, And crossed th' Atlantic's foam To seek for themselves a new career, And win another home; But, alas for hearts that had beat so high! They reached the goal, but only to die.

Let no rich worldling dare to say: "For them why should we grieve? But paupers--came they to our shores, Want, sickness, death to leave?" Each active arm, jail of power and health, And each honest heart was a mine of wealth.

'Twas a mournful end to day-dreams high, A sad and fearful doom-- To exchange their fever-stricken ships For the loathsome typhus tomb; And, ere they had smiled at Canada's sky, On this stranger land breathe their dying sigh.

The strong man in the prime of life, Struck down in one short hour, The loving wife, the rose-cheeked girl, Fairer than opening flower, The ardent youth, with fond hopes elate,-- O'ertaken all by one common fate.

Long since forgotten--here they rest, Sons of a distant land,-- The epochs of their short career Mere footprints on life's sand; But this stone will tell through many a year, They died on our shores, and they slumber here.

LOOKING FORWARD.

How busily those little fingers soft That within mine own are clasped so oft Have been, throughout this bright summer day, With pebbles and shells and leaves at play. They have sought birds' nests, plucked many a flower, Have decked with mosses the garden bower, Built tiny boats, without helm to steer, Yet floated them safe o'er the lakelet clear.

Ah! a time will come, and that ere long, When those soft hands will grow firm and strong; When they'll fling all boyish toys aside In the dawning strength of manhood's pride; Disdaining the prizes, the treasures gay, That they seize with such eager haste to-day; And parting with youth's joys, hopes and fears, Seek to grasp the aims of manhood's years.

Be it, then, thy care, my gentle boy, That new-born strength to well employ; Thine hand to raise in defence of right, To protect the weak 'gainst unjust might; Or in steadfast toil to spend its power, That toil--our birthright, our earthly dower-- A God-given law from which none are free, Whether of lofty or low degree.

And that childish voice, so sweet and clear, That like music falls on my charmed ear, Waking the echoes with laugh and song, 'Mid wood and field through the hours long; Mocking the warbling bird in yon tree, Or lisping thy prayers beside my knee, When thy voice shall thrill with a deeper tone, Say, how wilt thou use it, my child, my own?

To defend the cause of each sacred truth Thou hast learned to prize in thy early youth, In kindly word to the sad, the poor, To those whose cross is hard to endure; Wilt thou raise it in telling thy Maker's praise, In winning souls to His love and ways? But never in proud or unholy strife, Or in words with wrong to a brother rife.

And thy guileless heart whose truth, my boy, Is to me a source of the purest joy, In whose sinless depths I can plainly see, That as yet from all thought of ill 'tis free; When manhood's down shall have clothed thy cheek, When pleasure shall tempt and passion speak, When beset by snares that have others beguiled, Ah! what wilt thou do with thy heart, my child?

Guard it as treasure of price untold, In value beyond earth's gems and gold, Guard it from breath, from shadow, of sin-- No tempter must foothold gain therein. Let love of thy God and love of thy kind, Like tendrils around it closely wind; Blending those feelings of purest worth With love for Canada, land of thy birth.

If my prayer be answered, with tranquil breast I shall go content to my final rest, When death's icy finger has touched the brow That bends above thee so fondly now: Till then, I will daily ask of Heaven That, in manhood, it may to thee be given To devote thy voice, thy heart and thy hand, To God, thy kind, and thy native land.

THE HURON CHIEF'S DAUGHTER.