The Poetical Works of Mrs. Leprohon Part 8

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 ma.s.sive 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 G.o.d 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 h.o.a.r Unbridged out river, unwharfed each sh.o.r.e; 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 G.o.d 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 s.p.a.cious 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 Francois Thoronhiongo, Huron, Baptise par le Reverend Pere Brebeuf.

Il fut par sa piete et par sa probite, l'exemple des chretiens et l'admiration des infideles; il mourut age d'environ 100 ans, le 21 avril 1690.

Ici reposent Les restes mortels de Marie Therese Gannensagouas de la Congregation de Notre Dame.

Apres avoir exercee pendant treize ans l'office de maitresse d'ecole a la montagne, elle mourut en reputation de grande vertu, agee 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.

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 cas.e.m.e.nts 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 G.o.d 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 ta.s.seled 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.