Canadian Wild Flowers Part 8

Scarcely a ripple stirred its quiet breast; For every sighing breeze was lulled to rest, And every sound was hushed on earth, in air, And silence held supreme dominion there.

Sleep sent his angels forth; with silent tread, From house to house, they on their mission sped; Watched by the couch of suffering and pain.

Soothed the pale brow and calmed the throbbing brain, Eased the sad heart and closed the weeping eye, Bade care and grief with their attendants fly, Entered the chamber of the rich and great, Nor scorned to visit those of mean estate, But blessed alike the lofty and the low, Alike bade each forget their weight of woe.

The proud and wealthy drew around their breast "The curtains of repose," and sank to rest; The pallid sons of want and hunger slept, And sorrow's sons forgot that they had wept.

The night wore slowly on; the dismal tower Had long since tolled the lonely midnight hour When a proud band, by daring impulse led, Approached the river with a cautious tread, With kindling eye and with an eager air, Unmoored the boats that waited for them there; In silence left the calm and peaceful sh.o.r.e, In sullen silence plied the hasty oar, In silence pa.s.sed adown the quiet stream, While ever and anon a pale moonbeam, Sad and reproachful, cast a hasty glance On polished dagger and on gleaming lance.

The scene was mournful, and with magic art It acted strangely on each manly heart; No speedy action now, no rude alarm, Called forth their powers, or nerved the stalwart arm; No present danger used its strong control, To rouse the pa.s.sions of the warrior's soul; But all conspired to place Thought on her throne, And yield the reins of power to her alone.

The past came slowly forth with all its train Of blissful scenes that ne'er might be again, Of mournful partings and convulsive sighs, Of pallid faces and of tearful eyes, Of aching hearts that heaved with sorrow's swell, And broken tones that sadly breathed, "Farewell!"

And in the silence of that lonely hour, Which bade the sternest own its wondrous power, A small, still voice whispered in every soul, Although each sought to burst from its control: "To-morrow night the moon, as fair as now, May shed her beams upon your death-sealed brow!

To-morrow night the stars may gild the wave While you, perchance, may fill a soldier's grave!

To-morrow night your spirit may explore The boundless regions of an unknown sh.o.r.e!

To-morrow night may find you with the slain, And weeping love watch your return in vain!"

And yet not long such gloomy thoughts might rest Within the soldier's brave and gallant breast; Not long the warrior, panting for the field And for the battle's horrid din, might yield His fearless spirit unto sorrow's sway, Or dread the issue of the coming day.

The momentary sadness now was o'er, As with new hopes they neared the frowning sh.o.r.e, Landed in silence, and in stern array Pressed firmly forward on their dangerous way, Mounted the rugged rocks with footsteps slow, And left the murmuring river far below.

From cliff to cliff the gallant army spring, Nor envy now the eagle's soaring wing; They view their labors o'er, their object gain, And proudly stand upon the lovely plain; Gaze down upon the awful scenes they've pa.s.sed, Rejoicing that they've reached the heights at last.

Hope lights each eye and fills each manly breast, Where wild desires and aspirations rest; It bids each doubt and every shadow flee, And points them on to certain victory!

The morning dawned; the orient beams of light Fell on a strange and a romantic sight,-- On glistening helmet and on nodding crest, On waving banner and on steel-clad breast.

The city woke,--but woke to hear the cry, "To arms! to arms! the foe--the foe is nigh!"

She woke to hear the trumpet's wild alarms-- She woke to hear the sound of clashing arms-- She woke to view her confidence removed-- She woke to view her trusted safety proved; Her mighty bulwarks, long her pride and boast, All safely mounted by a British host-- She woke to view her lofty ramparts yield, Her plains converted to a battle-field, Her gallant troops in wild disorder fly, The British banner floating to the sky, And proudly waving o'er the b.l.o.o.d.y plain, O'er heaps of dying and o'er heaps of slain.

Roused from their hasty dreams, with brows aghast, On every hand the soldiers gather fast, Bind on their armor, seize the glittering sword, Form in a line, and at a simple word, With hurried steps advance toward the sh.o.r.e, With hasty gestures grasp the trembling oar, Across the river's bosom swiftly glide And safely land upon the other side.

Drawn up in battle order now they stand, Waiting in silence for their chief's command; Then onward move, with firm and stately tread, With waving plumes and ensigns proudly spread, With gleaming sword and with uplifted lance, Where brightly now the glistening sunbeams dance; But long before those sunbeams shall decline Streams of dark blood shall tarnish all their shine; Those beams shall strive to gild the steel in vain, For human gore the polished steel shall stain.

The sun rose clear that morn; with ardent glow He shed his beams alike o'er friend and foe.

His golden hues the spreading fields adorn, Waving in beauty with the ripening corn; Give richer colors to the lofty trees, That gently rustle in the morning breeze; They gild the river's surface, calm and blue, And shine reflected in the sparkling dew.

Oh, ye, who stand prepared for deadly strife, Thirsting for blood and for a brother's life, Behold the glories that around you lie, The harmony pervading earth and sky!

Behold the wondrous skill and power displayed In every leaf and every lowly blade; On every hand behold the wondrous love Of Him who reigns in majesty above,-- Who bids for man all nature sweetly smile, And sends his rain upon the just and vile; His attribute is love; and shall ye dare To take the life mercy and love would spare?

Shall ye destroy what he has formed to live, And take away what ye can never give?

Shall puny mortal claim the right his own Belonging to Omnipotence alone?

Rash man, forbear! and stay the ready dart That seeks to lodge within thy brother's heart.

But, no; for mercy's voice, now hushed and still, No longer may the steel-clad bosom thrill; And hearts that melted once at other's woe-- That kindled once with friendship's fervent glow-- That once had felt and owned the soothing power Of tender love--are callous in the hour When savage War makes bare his awful arm And peals in thunder tones his dread alarm.

But there were _some_ in those devoted bands O'er whom the blissful scenes of other lands Came rushing wildly; and with piercing gaze They looked an instant on their boyhood's days; Remembered well the hours that flew too fast, Remembered _some_ with whom those hours were past; And, 'mid the group of dear companions gay, Remembered well some whom they saw that day; But sprang not forward with familiar grasp And friendly air, the proffered hand to clasp; But looked away, and with a pang of pain Regretted that they e'er had met again!

For now they met, not as they met before-- Not as they used to meet in days of yore Not arm in arm, like brothers fondly tried, Whom they could trust and in whose love confide; Met not as once with high and mutual aim, In cla.s.sic halls to seek for future fame: But met as bitter foes, in deadly strife, Each wildly panting for the other's life; With armies proud and swelling, like the flood, To wreath their laurels in each other's blood!

They once were friends; but France and England rose In sounding arms and they are hostile foes!

They once were friends; but friendship may not shield The warrior's breast upon the battle-field!

They once were friends; but, hark! the cannon's roar Loudly proclaims that they are friends no more!

From rank to rank the stunning volley flies, From rank to rank the groans of anguish rise; Rank after rank is numbered with the slain; Rank follows rank, and bleeds upon the plain.

Bravely they fought; with unabated zeal In human gore they dipped the shining steel; Pressed o'er the heaps of dying and of dead, Where warriors groaned, and gallant heroes bled; While from their lips, in quick and stifled breath Arose the cry of "Victory, or death."

Louder and louder still the awful roar Pealed from the heights, and shook the frightened sh.o.r.e.

Thick clouds of smoke enveloped friend and foe; The volleyed thunder shook the depths below; Mountain and echoing forest joined the cry, And distant hills gave back the same reply.

With animating voice and waving hand The British leader cheered his gallant band, Pressed firmly forward where one endless tide Of woe and carnage reigned on every side,-- Where streams of blood in crimson torrents rolled,-- Where death smote down alike the young and old; And where the thickest poured the deadly shot, The gallant WOLFE with daring valor fought.

The dead and dying in his pathway lie, Before him ranks divide and squadrons fly; With stalwart arm, and with unerring aim, He adds new glories to his former fame, Reaps the reward of all his toil: for now Fresh laurels twine around his youthful brow.

But what avail they? for the fatal dart Of death has lodged within that hoping heart!

The lofty head that wore the waving crest, Now sadly droops upon the bleeding breast; That mighty arm, upraised in power and pride, Falls feebly down, and casts its sword aside; The laurel wreath entwines that brow in vain, For, lo! the hero lies among the slain!

The French fought long with courage and with skill; With iron arms and with an iron will Rushed bravely forward 'mid the battle's din, Resolved to die, or else the victory win; Like soldiers true, fought firmly and fought well, And at their post like faithful soldiers fell.

Deeper and deeper now the conflict grows; Despair nerves these, and victory flushes those.

'Tis the last struggle; hark! "They fly! they fly!"

Pierces the depths, and rends the vaulted sky.

'Tis the last struggle, for the beating drum Proclaims the conflict o'er, the victory won.

The French in wild dismay and horror yield, And leave the British masters of the field.

Far in the rear a dying warrior lay, While from his breast the life-blood ebbed away; Attendants bent around to staunch the tide That flowed in torrents from his wounded side; With wild convulsions came each panting-breath, And those proud features wore the hue of death.

His lips were sealed, his beaming eyes were dim, And strangely quivered every outstretched limb; Unconscious now he seemed of love or hate, Unconscious now his spirit seemed to wait The awful summons that should bid it fly To worlds unknown, unseen by human eye.

He seemed like one already with the dead; When, lo! he started--raised his drooping head; With dying hand he grasped his trusty blade, With kindling eye the battle-field surveyed, Heard the triumphant shout, "They run! they run!"

Knew that the field was gained, the victory won.

"Who run?" he cried, with wildly throbbing heart, With gushing breast, and livid lips apart.

"The French! the French!"--no more that warrior heard; It was enough for him, that single word; "I die contented!" and his youthful head Fell feebly back; the n.o.ble soul had fled.

Oh, gallant Wolfe! from o'er the dark blue sea There comes a wail--a bitter wail for thee; Thy country mourns her warrior, true and brave, And yearning love weeps o'er thy lowly grave, But nothing now may break thy tranquil rest, Nothing disturb thy calm and quiet breast; Nor clashing arms, nor cannon's deafening roar, Nor sorrow's wail, may ever rouse thee more.

But, when a voice, far louder than them all, Shall bid thee rise, thou must obey the call, And stand, bereft of earthly pride and power, Before thy Judge. G.o.d shield thee in that hour!

Remoter from the scene, with drooping head And nerveless arm, another warrior bled!

Death's seal upon that pallid brow was pressed; His icy hand lay on that heaving breast; But thoughts of victory lent no soothing balm To cheer the spirit of the proud Montcalm!

He lived to see his bravest followers die; He lived to see his troops disbanded fly; Nor longer cared to live, but welcomed death, And with a smile resigned his fleeting breath; Stretched his proud limbs, without a sigh or groan, And death had claimed the hero for his own.

The strife was o'er, the dreadful combat past; The echoing hills had found repose at last; Carnage had done its work on every side, And even greedy death was satisfied!

The sun went down; how changed from yester night!

How changed his aspect, and how changed the sight On which he gazed! Then his last golden beam Fell on a landscape fair--a quiet scene-- Where now destruction reared its standard dread O'er shattered bodies and o'er severed head.

Heap upon heap the pallid victims lay, Of racking pain and scorching thirst the prey; In anguish rolled upon the b.l.o.o.d.y ground, And wider still they tore each gaping wound; In concert joined their agonizing cries, Gnashed with their teeth and rolled their blood-shot eyes; With feeble groans they drew each painful breath, And racked with torments called aloud for death!

Far o'er the field in wild confusion rose Piles of the ghastly dead--of friends and foes-- In death stretched side by side, mangled and cold While over all the sulphurous war-clouds rolled, In dark, dense columns mounted up on high, Tainting the air, polluting all the sky.

Quebec was won; and o'er each lofty tower The British banner streamed in pride and power; Where the French eagle once her wings had spread The British lion reared his haughty head, And shook the conquered country with his roar; The eagle flew in terror from the sh.o.r.e.

With drooping plumage skimmed the western main, And, trembling, sought her native France again; While England, proud and potent, took the sway And waved her sceptre over Canada.

SONG OF THE ENGLISH PEASANT GIRL.

[The marriage in 1858 of Prince Frederick William of Prussia to Victoria Adelaide Mary, eldest daughter of the Queen of England; and the visit of Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, to Canada, in 1860, were events of sufficient magnitude to arouse the patriotism of our Canadian poetess, and we find reference made to them in this and the two following pieces.]

I am but a rustic maiden Dwelling by the river side, But I'm happy as the Princess Who today becomes a bride.

I am but a peasant's daughter, All his life in toil is spent, But he loves me as Prince Albert Loves his child, and I'm content.