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Rosanna
Leprohon
by
Wanda Campbell
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Rosanna
Leprohon
1829-1879
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Rosanna
(Mullins) Leprohon was born in Montreal
on January 12, 1829, the daughter of a wealthy
businessman and was educated at the convent
of the Congregation of Notre-Dame. Beginning
when she was seventeen, her poetry and prose
began to appear in the Literary Garland
and other periodicals including the True
Witness, the Journal of Education,
and the New Dominion Monthly. In 1848,
Susanna Moodie drew attention to the young writer
as “one of the gifted, upon whom fancy
smiled in her cradle and genius marked her for
his own. As a Canadian born, we augur for her
a bright wreath of fame” (Victoria
Magazine [June 1848]:240). In 1851, she
married the French Canadian doctor Jean-Lucien
Leprohon and, over the next twenty years, bore
thirteen children. Not surprisingly, her literary
output declined during this period though she
continued to publish poetry in Montreal periodicals
and write the historical novels for which she
is most remembered.
In
1864, Edward Hartley Dewart included five of
her poems in his Selections from Canadian
Poets. “Her poetry,” he writes,
“is marked by simplicity and gracefulness
of style, strong domestic and human sympathies
and high moral sentiments” (58). He also
notes that her poems have never been collected,
and encourages her to “present them in
a form suitable for permanent preservation”
(58). Dewart’s suggestion was acted upon
in 1881, two years after Leprohon’s death,
when The Poetical Works of Mrs. Leprohon
was published in Montreal with an Introduction
attributed to John Reade, the literary editor
of the Montreal Gazette. The 222 page
volume includes 110 poems divided into five
categories: “Sacred Poems,” “Narrative
and Descriptive Poems,” “Reflective
and Elegiac Poems,” “Vers de Societé,"
and “Voices of the Hearth.” One
contemporary review in Rose-Belford’s
Canadian Monthly indicates that “there
is not a little in the volume which, from a
literary point of view, had better have been
left out” (325) an assessment with which
is it is difficult not to concur. [Page
33]
In
1972, J.C. Stockdale wrote that Leprohon’s
poetry is touched with “moral seriousness
and didacticism” (537). He cites the influence
of Thomas Gray and picks “A Canadian Snowfall”
as her best poem, comparing it to a Ralph Waldo
Emerson poem on the same theme. His discussion
of the Romanticism of her depictions of scenery
and seasons concludes: “her poetry is
good technically, and, in places, interesting
in theme and content, but it must take second
place to her novels of life in early Quebec”
(537). It was primarily Leprohon’s fiction
that prompted Henry Morgan to write in 1867:
“She has done more almost than any other
Can. writer to foster and promote the growth
of a national Literature” (224). In her
Preface to Antoinette de Mirecourt
(1864) Leprohon wrote: “Canadians should
not be discouraged from endeavouring to form
and foster a literature of their own…the
smallest stone employed always helps a little
in the construction of even the loftiest building”
(17). In his Introduction to a 1973 reprint
of that novel, Carl F. Klinck writes that Leprohon’s
book of poetry
anticipates
in many ways the interests of the next generation
of poets; one senses now that a Canadian poetic
tradition was then in the making, that from
sources such as hers would come the native
poetry of Charles Mair, Isabella Valancy Crawford,
and Wilfred Campbell. (7)
In
her sympathetic overview of Leprohon’s
fiction, Carole Gerson argues that she shares
the fate of her contemporaries James DeMille
and Agnes Maule Machar in that “a combination
of choice and chance shaped their literary fortunes,
destining them to support their country’s
conservative cultural values and to refrain
from challenging the limits of their own talents”
(217).
Though
dismissed by R.G. Moyles as “generally
poor stuff” that “deserves little
critical attention” (157), Leprohon’s
poetry still speaks to the power of the Canadian
landscape, particularly in winter. Even when
that landscape is foreboding, as in “Autumn
Evening at Murray Bay,” the image of “restless
waters ’gainst a bleak and rock-bound
shore” lingers in the mind of the poet
and her readers long after “pleasant tapers”
and glad voices lure her back into a domestic
interior.
Leprohon’s
efforts to infuse the Canadian scene with mythical
significance are revealed in her portrayals
of French Canadian and Native history. A central
theme of poems about the lives of white and
Native women is the contrast between the “bright
unfettered” hours of girlhood, when young
women are still “heart-free” and
“unwon,” and the adult world of
pain and [Page 34] responsibility.
The “strange Promethean spark” of
Joan of Arc and other virginal heroines stands
in stark contrast to the “cunning and
art” cultivated by Edith, the shallow
social climber of “A Modern Courtship.”
Elsewhere, Leprohon celebrates the benefits
of the marital and maternal state but acknowledges
that to love is to open oneself to loss.
Selected
Bibliography
The
Poetical Works of Mrs. Leprohon (Montreal:
Lovell, 1881)
Susanna
Moodie, “Editor’s Table,”
Victoria Magazine 1 (June 1848): 240;
E.H. Dewart, ed. Selections from Canadian
Poets (Montreal, Lovell: 1864) 58; Henry
Morgan, Bibliotheca Canadensis (Ottawa:
G.E. Desbarats, 1867) 224. Anonymous, “The
Poetical Works of Mrs. Leprohon,” Rose-Belford’s
Canadian Monthly 8 (1882): 324-25; Henri
Deneau, “Life and Works of Mrs. Leprohon,
nee R.E. Mullins” (unpub. MA thesis, U
of Montreal, 1948); J.C. Stockdale, “Mullins,
Rosanna Eleanor,” Dictionary of Canadian
Biography 10 (1972): 536-38; Carl F. Klinck,
“Introduction,” Antoinette de
Mirecourt (1864, rpt. 1973): 5-14; R.G.
Moyles, English-Canadian Literature to 1900
(Detroit: Gale, 1976): 157-58; Carole Gerson,
“Three Writers of Victorian Canada,”
Canadian Writers and Their Works: Fiction
Series 1:195-256 (Toronto: ECW, 1983);
Mary Jane Edwards, “Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon,”
Dictionary of Literary Biography 99
(1990): 206-208; Lorraine McMullen and Elizabeth
Waterston, “Rosanna Mullins Leprohon:
At Home in Many Worlds,” Silenced
Sextet: Six Nineteenth-Century Canadian Women
Novelists (Montreal: McGill-Queens UP,
1992): 14-51. [Page 35]
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An Autumn Evening at Murray Bay*
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Darkly falls the autumn twilight, rustles by the
crisp leaf sere,
Sadly wail the lonely night-winds, sweeping sea-ward,
chill and drear,
Sullen dash the restless waters ’gainst a
bleak and rock-bound shore,
While the sea-birds’ weird voices mingle with
their surging roar. Vainly
seeks the eye a flow’ret ’mid the
desolation drear, |
5 |
Or
a spray of pleasant verdure which the gloomy scene
might cheer;
Nought but frowning crags and boulders, and long
sea-weeds, ghastly,
dank,
With the mosses and pale lichens, to the wet rocks
clinging rank.
See, the fog-clouds thickly rolling o’er the
landscape far and wide,
Till the tall cliffs look like phantoms, seeking
’mid their shrouds to |
10 |
| hide;
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On they come, the misty masses of the wreathing
vapour white,
Filling hill and mead and valley, blotting earth
and heaven from sight.
Silent,
mournful, am I standing, gazing from the window
pane,
Dimmed and blurred with heavy plashes of the fast
descending rain,
While thoughts chiming with the hour my weary
brain are passing
|
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| through, |
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Till the shadows of the evening on my brow are
mirrored too.
Rise,
although uncalled, within me, memories of the
distant past,
Of the dreams, the hopes, the fancies, that round
life sweet sunshine
cast;
Whilst the moan of winds and waters, with a strange,
mysterious art,
Seem to awaken drear forebodings in the listening
gazer’s heart. |
20 |
Ah!
it needs yon pleasant tapers with enlivening, home-like
ray,
And the sound of voices sharing, each in turn, in
converse gay,
And the flash of fire-light, making happy faces
still more glad,
To dispel the mournful thoughts that make the evening
hour so sad.
Turning from this lonely musing, wilful nursing
of dark care,
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I
will join the joyous circle of the dear ones gathered
there, [Page 36]
Who with smiles will greet my advent, and in that
delightful room
Shake aside the dreary shadows of this scene of
autumn gloom. |
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*
All poems are from the Poetical Works of Mrs.
Leprohon 1881 [back] |
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Few
poets yet in praise of thee
Have tuned a passing lay.
Yet art thou rich in beauties stern,
Thou dark-browed Saguenay!
And those grand charms that surely form
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For
earth her rarest crown
On thee, with strangely lavish hand,
Have all been showered down.
Thine
own wild flood, so deep, so dark,
That holds the gaze enthralled
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As if
by some weird spell, at once
Entranced yet not appalled;
Seeking in vain to pierce those depths,
Where wave and rock have
met,
Those depths which, by the hand of man,
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| Have
ne’er been fathomed yet.
And
then thy shores—thy rock-bound shores,
Where giant cliffs arise,
Raising their untrod, unknown heights
Defiant to the skies,
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And
casting from their steep, stern brows
Shadows of deepest gloom
Athwart thy wave, till it doth seem
A passage to a tomb.
Such art thou in thy solitude,
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Majestic
Saguenay! [Page 37]
As lonely and as sternly rude
As in time past away,
When the red man in his fragile bark
Sped o’er thy glassy
wave,
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And
found amid thy forests wild
His cradle, home and grave.
All, all is changed—reigns in his stead
Another race and name,
But, in thy lonely grandeur still,
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| Proud
River, thou’rt the same! |
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Mine
eye is weary of the plains
Of verdure, vast and wide,
That stretch around me—lovely, calm,
From morn till even-tide;
And I recall with aching heart |
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My
childhood’s village home;
Its cottage roofs and garden plots,
Its brooks of silver foam. |
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II
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True,
glowing verdure smiles around,
And this rich virgin soil
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Gives
stores of wealth in quick return
For hours of careless toil;
But, oh! the reaper’s joyous song
Ne’er mounts to Heaven’s
dome,
For unknown is the mirth and joy |
15 |
| Of
the merry “Harvest Home.” [Page
38] |
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The
solemn trackless woods are fair,
And bright their summer
dress;
But their still hush—their whisp’rings
vague,
My heart seem to oppress;
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And
’neath their shadow could I sit,
And think the live-long
day
On my country’s fields and hedges green,
Gemmed with sweet hawthorn
spray. |
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| The
graceful vines and strange bright flow’rs, |
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I
meet in every spot,
I’d give up for a daisy meek,
A blue forget-me-not;
And from the brilliant birds I turn,
Warbling the trees among:
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I know
them not—and breathe a sigh
For lark or linnet’s
song. |
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But
useless now those vain regrets!
My course must finish here;
In dreams alone I now can see |
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Again
my home so dear,
Or those fond loving friends who clung
Weeping unto my breast;
And bade “God speed me” when I left,
To seek the far, far West.
[Page
39] |
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’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
|
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| 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
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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,
|
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Brooding
above that home of the dead,
While Christmas fires lit up each hearth
And shed their glow upon the scenes of mirth.
Silent the weary wayfarer stood—
The spot well suited his pensive mood,
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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 |
25 |
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.” [Page
40] |
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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,
|
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| 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,
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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,
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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!” |
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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, |
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| 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;
|
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| Whilst
chill winds and skies of gloomy hue
Tell in England, as elsewhere, ‘tis winter
too.
[Page 41]
Away with dull thoughts! Raise your brooding eyes
To yonder unclouded azure skies;
Look round on the earth, robed in bridal white,
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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,
|
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Whilst
from harness, decked with silvery bells,
In 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,
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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. |
30 |
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, |
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| 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
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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
[Page 42] |
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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 winters, then, no
more;
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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. |
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Why
turn from me thus with such petulant pride,
When I ask thee, sweet Edith, to be my bride;
When I offer the gift of heart fond and true,
And with loyalty seek thy young love to woo?
With patience I’ve waited from week unto week,
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| And
at length I must openly, candidly speak.
But why dost thou watch me in doubting surprise,
Why thus dost thou raise thy dark, deep, melting
eyes?
Can’st thou wonder I love thee, when for
the last year
We have whispered and flirted—told each
hope and fear;
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When
I’ve lavished on thee presents costly and
gay,
And kissed thy fair hands at least six times each
day? What!
Do I hear right? So those long sunny hours
Spent wand’ring in woods or whispering in
bowers,
Our love-making ardent in prose and in rhyme,
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Was
just only a method of passing the time!
A harmless flirtation—the fashion just now,
To be closed, by a smile, or a jest, or a bow!
Ah,
believe me, fair Edith, with me ’twas not
so,
And I would I had known this but six months ago;
|
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I
would not have wasted on false, luring smiles, [Page
43]
On graces coquettish and cold, studied wiles,
True love that would give thee a life for thy life,
And guarded and prized thee, a fond, worshipped
wife. Oh!
thou’rt pleased now to whisper my manners
are good,
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And
my smiles such as maiden’s heart rarely withstood,
My age just the thing—not too young nor too
old—
My character faultless, naught lacking but gold,
And to-day might I claim e’en thy beauty so
rare
If good Uncle John would but make me his heir. |
30 |
Many
thanks, my best Edith! I now understand
For what thou are willing to barter thy hand:
A palace-like mansion with front of brown stone,
In some splendid quarter to fashion well known,
Sèvres china, conservatory, furniture rare,
|
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| Unlimited
pin-money, phæton and pair.
It is well, gentle lady! The price is not high
With a figure like thine, such a hand, such an
eye,
Most brilliant accomplishments, statuesque face,
Manners, carriage distingué, and
queenlike in grace,—
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40 |
Nothing
wanting whatever, save only a heart,
But, instead, double portions of cunning and art.
Ah!
well for me, lady, I have learned in good time
To save myself misery—you, sordid crime.
I will garner the love that so lately was thine
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45 |
For
one who can give me a love true as mine;
But learn ere we part, Edith, peerless and fair,
Uncle John has just died and has left me his
heir! |
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The Tryst of the Sachem’s Daughter
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In the
far green depths of the forest glade,
Where the hunter’s footsteps but rarely strayed,
Was a darksome dell, possessed, ’twas said,
[Page 44]
By an evil spirit, dark and dread,
Whose weird voice spoke in the whisperings low
|
5 |
| 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,
|
10 |
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, |
15 |
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,
|
20 |
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,
|
25 |
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.
|
30 |
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 skillfully guiding her bark canoe |
35 |
O’er
St. Lawrence’s waves of sparkling blue. [Page
45]
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,
|
40 |
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
|
45 |
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;
|
50 |
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,
|
55 |
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. |
60 |
“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,
|
65 |
| 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; [Page
46]
To the Manitou praying, she passed away
With the sunset clouds of another day,—
|
70 |
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,
|
75 |
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,
|
80 |
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. |
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The
snow-flakes were softly falling
Adown on the landscape white,
When the violet eyes of my first-born
Opened unto the light;
And I thought as I pressed him to me, |
5 |
With
loving, rapturous thrill,
He was pure and fair as the snow-flakes
That lay on the landscape
still.
I smiled when they spoke of the weary
Length of the winter’s
night,
|
10 |
Of the
days so short and so dreary,
Of the sun’s cold
cheerless light—
I listened, but in their murmurs
Nor by word nor thought
took part, [Page 47]
For the smiles of my gentle darling
|
15 |
Brought
light to my home and heart.
Oh! quickly the joyous springtime
Came back to our ice-bound
earth,
Filling meadows and woods with sunshine,
And hearts with gladsome
mirth,
|
20 |
But,
ah! on earth’s dawning beauty
There rested a gloomy shade,
For our tiny household blossom
Began to droop and fade.
And I, shuddering, felt that the frailest
|
25 |
Of
the flowers in the old woods dim
Had a surer hold on existence
Than I dared to hope for
him.
In the flush of the summer’s beauty
On a sunny, golden day,
|
30 |
When
flowers gemmed dell and upland,
My darling passed away.
Now I chafed at the brilliant sunshine
That flooded my lonely room,
Now I wearied of bounteous Nature,
|
35 |
So
full of life and bloom;
I regretted the wintry hours
With the snow-flakes falling
fast,
And the little form of my nursling
With his arms around me
cast. |
40 |
They
laid his tiny garment
In an attic chamber high,
His coral, his empty cradle,
That they might not meet
my eye;
And his name was never uttered, |
45 |
What
e’er each heart might feel,
For they wished the wound in my bosom
Might have time to close
and heal. [Page 48]
It has done so, thanks to that Power
That has been my earthly
stay,
|
50 |
And
should you talk of my darling,
I could listen now all day,
For I know that each passing minute
Brings me nearer to life’s
last shore,
And nearer to that glorious Kingdom |
55 |
| Where
we both shall meet once more! |
|
c.1852 |
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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 |
5 |
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
|
10 |
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 |
15 |
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;
|
20 |
And,
later, the gleam of an English flag
From its cannon-crownèd
brow,— [Page 49]
That flag which, despite the changing years,
Floateth proudly o’er
us now. Thou’st
seen the dark-browed Indians, too,
|
25 |
Thronging
each narrow street,
In their garb so stangely picturesque,
Their gaily moccassined
feet;
And beside them gentle helpmates stood,
Dark-hued, with soft black
eyes, |
30 |
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, |
35 |
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. |
40 |
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, |
45 |
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
|
50 |
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 |
55 |
For
better and brighter days. [Page 50]
And humble Recollect Friars here
Their matins recited o’er,
And glided with noiseless, sandalled feet
O’er the chapel’s
sacred floor;
|
60 |
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
|
65 |
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,
|
70 |
Linked
with our city’s young days, like them,
Will henceforth be of the
past. |
|
Sister M.B.’s Arrival in Montreal, 1654
|
|
It is
now two hundred years and more
Since first set foot on Canadian shore
That saint-like heroine, fair and pure,
Prepared all things for Christ to endure;
Resigning rank and kindred ties, |
5 |
| And
her sunny home ’neath France’s skies.
A lonely sight for her to see
Was the wilderness town of Ville Marie!
The proud St. Lawrence, with silver foam,
Touched softly the base of our island home,
|
10 |
But
frowning forest and tangled wood
Made the land a dreary solitude.
Nor mansion, chapel, nor glinting spire
Reflected the sunset’s fading fire; [Page
51]
The wigwam sent up its faint blue smoke,
|
15 |
The
owlet’s shrill cry the stillness broke,
While the small rude huts of the settlers stood
Within frail palisades of wood. Undaunted
by fear of the savage foe,
Wild midnight blaze or th’assassin’s
blow; |
20 |
Careless
of suffering, famine, want,
That haunted the settlers like spectres gaunt,
Sister Bourgeois had but one hope, one aim—
To humbly work in her Master’s name.
Kindly
she gathered around her knee |
25 |
The
dusky daughters, unfettered, free,
Of forest tribes, and, with woman’s art,
Ennobling, softning each youthful heart,
Fashioned them into true womanhood,
Slow unto evil but prompt to good. |
30 |
And
their pale-face sisters had full share
In this gentle teacher’s tender care;
And grew up, holding as holy and dear
The sacred duties of woman’s sphere;
Adding the firmness and courage high— |
35 |
| Chief
need of our sex in days gone by.
Sister Bourgeois’ daughters have nobly
all
Responded unto her gracious call;
Through sunshine and joy, through storm and pain—
In one unfailing, unbroken chain
|
40 |
Of teachers
devoted—nought left undone
To fulfil the task by their foundress begun. |
|
Charles VII and Joan of Arc at Rheims
|
|
A glorious
pageant filled the church of the proud old city
of Rheims,
One such as poet-artists choose to form their loftiest
themes: [Page 52]
There France beheld her proudest sons grouped in
a glittering ring,
To place the crown upon the brow of their now triumphant
king.
The full, rich tones of music swelled out on
the perfumed air,
|
5 |
And
chosen warriors, gaily decked, emblazoned banners
bear:
Jewels blazed forth, and silver-bright shone armor,
shield and lance,
Of princes, peers, and nobles proud, the chivalry
of France. The
object of these honors high, on lowly bended knee,
Before the altar homage paid to the God of Victory;
|
10 |
Whilst
Renaud Chartres prayed that Heaven might blessings
shower
down
On that young head on which he now was chosen to
place a crown.
Fair
was the scene, but fairer far than pomp of church
or state,
Than starry gems or banners proud, or trappings
of the great,
Was the maiden frail whose prophet-glance from
heaven seemed
|
15 |
| to
shine, |
|
| Who,
in her mystic beauty, looked half mortal, half
divine.
Her
slight form cased in armor stern, the Maid of
Orleans stood,
Her place a prouder one than that of prince of
royal blood:
With homage deep to Heaven above, and prayers
to Notre Dame,
She waved above the monarch’s head proud
Victory’s |
20 |
| Oriflamme.
|
|
Then,
as the clouds of incense rose, encircling in its
fold
That shining form, the kneeling king, the canopy
of gold,
It seemed unto the gazers there a scene of magic
birth,
Such as is rarely granted to the children of this
earth.
Sudden a mystic sadness steals o’er Joan’s
features bright,
|
25 |
Robbing
her brow, her earnest eyes, of their unearthly light:
A voice from Him, by whose right arm her victories
had been won,
Had whispered, ‘bove the clank of steel, “Thy
mission now is done,”
Perchance the future, then, was shown to her
pure spirit’s gaze,
The future with its sufferings, the shame, the
scaffold’s blaze;
|
30 |
| [Page
53] |
|
The
deaf’ning shouts, the surging crowd, the incense,
mounting high,
Foreshadowed to her shrinking soul the death she
was to die. The youthful monarch now was crowned,
and lowly at his feet
Did France’s saviour bend her form, rendering
homage meet.
No guerdon for past deeds of worth sought that young
noble |
35 |
| heart,
|
|
| She,
who might all rewards have claimed, asked only to
depart. Oh!
France! of all the storied names that deck thy
history’s page,
Thy sainted kings, thy warriors proud, thy statesmen
stern and sage,
None, none received the glorious light, the strange
Promethean spark
That Heaven vouchsafed thy spotless maid, immortal
Joan of Arc! |
40 |
|
|
How
oft I’ve longed to gaze on thee,
Thou proud and mighty deep!
Thy vast horizon, boundless, free,
Thy coast so rude and steep;
And now entranced I breathless stand, |
5 |
Where
earth and ocean meet,
Whilst billows wash the golden sand,
And break around my feet.
Lovely thou art when dawn’s red light
Sheds o’er thee its
soft hue,
|
10 |
Showing
fair ships, a gallant sight,
Upon thy waters blue;
And when the moonbeams softly pour
Their light on wave or glen,
And diamond spray leaps on the shore, |
15 |
How
lovely art thou then!
Still, as I look, faint shadows steal
O’er thy calm heaving
breast,
And there are times, I sadly feel,
Thou art not thus at rest;
[Page
54]
|
20 |
And
I bethink me of past tales,
Of ships that left the shore,
And meeting with thy fearful gales,
Have ne’er been heard
of more.
They say thy depths hold treasures rare,
|
25 |
Groves
coral—sands of gold—
Pearls fitted for a monarch’s wear
And gems of worth untold;
But these could not to life restore
The idol of one home, |
30 |
Not
make brave hearts beat high once more
That sleep beneath thy foam.
But I must chase such thoughts away,
They mar this happy hour,
Remembering thou dost but obey
|
35 |
Thy
Great Creator’s power;
And in my own fair inland home,
Mysterious, moaning main,
In dreams I’ll see thy snow-white foam
And frowning rocks again.
|
40 |
A Girl’s Day Dream and Its Fulfilment
|
|
“Child
of my love, why wearest thou
That pensive look and thoughtful brow?
Can’st gaze abroad on this world so fair
And yet thy glance be fraught with care?
Roses still bloom in glowing dyes, |
5 |
Sunshine
still fills our summer skies,
Earth is still lovely, nature glad—
Why dost thou look so lone and sad?”
“Ah! mother it once sufficed thy child
To cherish a bird or flow’ret wild;
|
10 |
To see
the moonbeams the waters kiss, [Page 55]
Was enough to fill her heart with bliss;
Or o’er the bright woodland stream to bow,
But these things may not suffice her now.”
“Perhaps ’tis music thou seekest,
child?
|
15 |
Then
list the notes of the song birds wild,
The gentle voice of the mountain breeze,
Whispering among the dark pine trees,
The surge sublime of the sounding main,
Or thy own loved lute’s soft silvery strain.”
|
20 |
“Mother,
there’s music sweeter I know
Than bird’s soft note or than ocean’s
flow,
Vague to me yet as sounds of a dream,
Yet dearer, brighter than sunshine’s gleam;
Such is the music I fain would hear, |
25 |
| All
other sounds but tire mine ear!” “Ah!
thou seekest then a loving heart,
That in all thy griefs will bear a part,
That shelter will give in doubt and fear,
Come to me, loved one, thou’lt find it here!”
|
30 |
“Sweet
mother, I almost fear to speak,
And remorseful blushes dye my cheek,
For though thou’st watched me from childhood’s
hour,
As thou would’st have done a precious flower,
Though I love thee still as I did of yore, |
35 |
| Yet
this weak heart seeketh something more:
A bliss
as yet to my life unknown,
A heart whose throbs will be all mine own,
The tender tones of a cherished voice,
Of him who shall be my heart’s first choice;
|
40 |
And
who at my feet alone shall bow,
This, this is the dream that haunts me now.”
[Page 56]
“Alas, poor child, has it come to this?
Then bid farewell to thy childhood’s bliss,
To thy girlhood’s bright unfettered hours,
|
45 |
Thy
sunny revels ’mid birds and flowers;
Of the golden zone yield up each strand
To cling to a hope, unstable as sand,
And forget the joys thy youth hath wove
In the stormy doubts of human love, |
50 |
The
feverish hopes and wearing pain
That form the links of Love’s bright chain!”
Alas!
the mother spoke in vain!
The girl’s dream was soon fulfilled,
Her hopes by no dark cloud were chilled;
|
55 |
A lover
ardent, noble too,
With flashing eyes of jetty hue,
With voice like music, sweet and soft,
Such as her dreams had pictured oft,
Now at her feet, a suppliant bowed, |
60 |
| And
love eternal, changeless vowed.
Listening, then, with glowing cheek,
And rapture which no words might speak,
She thought, with bright and joyous smile,
They erred who thus could love revile,
|
65 |
Or say
it had many a dark alloy,—
Had it not proved a dream of joy?
But, alas for her! she learned too soon
That love is fleeting as rose of June,
That her eyes might shine with olden light,
|
70 |
And
yet be found no longer bright;
That she might devoted, faithful prove,
Yet her lover grow weary of her love.
Many an hour of silent tears,
Of heart-sick doubts, of humbling fears, |
75 |
Of angry
regrets, were hers, before
Her heart would say: “He loves me no more.”
[Page 57]
Weary of life and its thorny ways,
She sought the friend of her early days:
“Mother, I bring thee a breaking heart,
|
80 |
In sorrows
deep it hath borne a part;
Speak to me tenderly as of yore,
Let thy kiss rest on my brow once more;
To the joys of my girlhood back I flee,
To live alone for them and for thee! [Page
58] |
85 |
|
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