Read Ebook: Marguerite; or The Isle of Demons and Other Poems by Martin George

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 551 lines and 62890 words, and 12 pages

MARGUERITE.

PREFATORY NOTE.

The story narrated in the following poem is one of the most touching of the many romantic legends of the early history of Canada. Some foundation in fact it undoubtedly has, for it forms the basis of one of the stories in the collection of Queen Margaret of Navarre, written while the chief actors in the tragedy were alive. The version of Queen Margaret differs from that of Thevet in many respects. He gives for his authorities Roberval and the unfortunate Marguerite herself.

Parkman, in the first volume of his admirable series of histories--the Pioneers of New France--gives the story as related by Thevet. The subject readily lends itself to poetical treatment, and, if the heroine in the poem is made to put a more favourable construction upon her conduct than the chronicler, it is surely no more than, as the narrator of her own story, she might have a right to do. The harsh and tyrannical character of Roberval is drawn in dark lines by Parkman. His cruelties, in the short lived colony at Cap Rouge, were such than even the Indians were moved to pity for his victims. On his return to France he was assassinated at night in the streets of Paris, probably by the hand of one who had suffered from his tyranny.

SONNET.

O Love! thou art the soul's fixed star, whose light-- A rapture felt through all the rolling years,-- Absorbs with silent touch the mourner's tears, A guide, a glory through our mortal night;-- All other passions, be they dark or bright, All high desires are but thy subject spheres, And captive servitors, whose pathway veers, Obedient to thine all-pervading might;-- And therefore I no hesitation make In choosing thee, a theme accounted old, Yet ever young, and for poor Marguerite's sake I trust some kind remembrance to awake That shall in tenderest clasp her story hold, Even as a rose a drop of dew doth fold.

MARGUERITE

OR THE ISLE OF DEMONS.

The interior of a Convent in France: Group of Nuns listening to Marguerite narrating her adventure.

You ask me, Sisters, to relate The story of the wanton fate That over sea, with dole and strife And love and hate enthralled my life, Entwined with his, whose gentle eyes, That never lost their winsome smile, Illumed for me those sullen skies Which canopy the haunted Isle, A tale so wild, I pray you think, May ill beseem and prove amiss For such a hallowed place as this; A chain it is whose every link Is rusted with some earthly stain, The which you may esteem profane And from its hapless wearer shrink, I would not, Heaven knows, offend The sanctity of sinless ears, Nor vex the pious soul that hears Good angels on soft wings descend, Illumined, from the starry spheres, To tread these cloistered aisles and bend O'er dreaming couches lily pure. But since your suffrance makes secure, And since you kindly deign assent, And graciously with eager look Dispel the fluttering fears that shook My contrite heart, I am content.

Mystic Mother! who erewhile Sought me on the Demons' Isle, Sought, and with compassion mild Shielded thy afflicted child; Shielded, and with vengeance new Scattered the Satanic crew: Blest Madonna! aid me now, Lift the pressure from my brow; Bid the thunder-cloud depart From my overladen heart; Tune my tongue, my lips inspire, Touch them with celestial fire; Shape the lay as meet to set, Like a modest violet, In Saint Cecilia's coronet.

Three gallant ships that owned command Of Roberval's imperial hand Thundered to France a proud farewell And sailed away from brusque Rochelle; Sailed on a breezy April day, Sailed westward for a land that lay, I heard the people wisely tell, Betwixt the ocean and Cathay. From shore to ship, from ship to shore A thousand parting signals flew; Ah! hopeful hearts, they little knew That many were there who never more Must see those faces that faded away, And were lost in the distance cold and gray. With troubled breast and tearful eye, In fear and doubt, I knew not why-- Unheedful of the sea-winds chill-- I watched the land recede until The mountain peaks had passed from sight, Like clouds absorbed in morning's light, And ocean's border touched the sky.

His vassals prized his slightest nod, And feared him more than fiend or God. The modest maid, the peasant's bride His foul approaches must not chide; I blush, as if it were a sin, To own him all too near of kin. Seven sunny years had barely flown When I, an only child, was left, Of sire and happy home bereft, To wipe a mother's tears alone. A leader in the wars with Spain, The hero whom we wept was slain. Oh! I remember well his look, His stature tall and noble brow, Remember how he often strook And praised my long dark hair, and how On that last morn of clouded bliss He woke me with a parting kiss; His hurried prayer, his slow farewell, The window flowers, the little room, The dangling sword, the nodding plume, The long top-boots and shining spurs;-- O, let this pass! O, let me quell A memory shot through years of gloom.

My comely mother from the hour That chronicled his honoured death Wilted and drooped, a pale sweet flower, And three years gone I saw her breath Grow faint and fail. Dear sainted mother! 'Twas just before her spirit fled She did beseech her lordly brother To shield her orphaned Marguerite's head. He promised with a ready grace And in his rude capricious way Thenceforth assigned me fitting place;-- But I was volatile and gay, Ready of wit, of skilful hands, And minded not his curt commands.

Thus came to pass that on his ship,-- A ringdove in a falcon's grip,-- I sailed the surging seas afar. But one was there, Eugene Lamar, My bliss, my bane--I cared not what, Who worshipped me, beside me sat, And with me paced the giddy deck, What time we watched the sea-mews peck The foam that fringed the crested wave. For me he ventured all, and gave His fortune to the winds; then why Should aught disturb, or cause one sigh To prophesy of lurking harm?

Exultant in their new-found charm, A motley throng of either sex, Of divers rank and variant age Now promenade the oaken decks, Proud of an ocean pilgrimage. We heeded not their boisterous glee, Their merry songs and dancing feet, Our happiness was too complete. The azure sky and emerald sea, And free-born winds their magic wrought, Till every feeling, every thought, Involved in tremulous ecstacy Made no account of sight or sound;-- We twain another world had found, Whose warm excess of drowsing bliss Excluded all the chills of this.

Our ship sped on, fresh blew the wind, Her plodding mates lagged far behind; Like two white cloudlets waxing dim They hung on the horizon's rim For many days, but hull and mast All wholly disappeared at last.

Mid-ocean crossed, the wind blew strong And like a Nereid's dolorous song Wailed through the rigging; rose and fell The billows with portentous swell. Swift night came down, cold, wild and black, Red lightnings lit the inky rack Of hostile clouds; a storm it grew, And such a storm as men might rue. The prince of air his bondage broke, And loud in horrent thunder spoke; Our staunch craft felt the perilous strain, And like a thing in mortal pain Groaned audibly; strong sails, though furled, Were rent in shreds From their ash spar beds And wafted to some calmer world.

Two seamen from the yards were blown: An instant mid the tempest's roar, Above the rattling thunder's tone, A double shriek was heard--no more!-- Their names, their fate, no stone records, For them no consecrated words, Nor bell, nor candle;--only this, "Two mortals, to the world unknown Were blown into the salt abyss." All night the elements beset Our hapless bark; the mad waves leaped Like krakens on the deck, and reaped A harvest which they garner yet. Fierce down the hatchways snarled the sea, I heard the shout of Roberval Command them closed; ah me! ah me! What prayers! what shrieks! I never shall, While memory marks the flight of years, Forget that storm of phrenzied fears. Think not our sex alone gave way To craven doubt and blanched despair;-- Great burly men, whose heads were gray, Gave wildest wings to desperate prayer. I dare believe they felt ashamed,-- The blessed Saints whose names were named In phrase that seemed impiety.

What marvel if at such a time My lover groped his way to where My couch was spread, and tarried there? Was such devotedness a crime? Together on the floor we knelt In quiet hopefulness, and felt Assurance in our souls that He, Who walked the waves of Galilee, When, weak of faith and sore afraid, The sinking Peter cried for aid, Would manifest His sacred will; Would stretch His saving hand and bind The fury of the maddened wind, And bid the savage waves be still. My greyhound, ever near me, took A painful and bewildered look; All that dread night the narrow space He traversed with unwearied pace. The imminent danger well he knew, And watched the changes of my face, And moaned at its unwonted hue.

Harsh prelude this! a warning fit Of coming woes. The brow hard-knit, The curling lip and heaving chest Of Roberval presaged the rest. But what his dark design might be Eluded anxious scrutiny; We only knew some purpose dire, Like a swollen adder cirqued with fire, Lay coiled within his vengeful heart, Ready against our lives to dart. "Fear not, my love!" Eugene exclaimed, "Faint not, true heart! whose peace is spilt; The evil tongues that have defamed Thy innocence shall own their guilt. If blame there be 'tis I alone Have erred, nor do I shrink to bear Thy kinsman's wrath, but how atone For wrong committed unaware? Let unjust Roberval decree What punishment his ire may crave; However tends his evil course, He cannot, dearest one, divorce My constant soul from thine--from thee, For even from the silent grave I verily believe my love Would issue through the cope above, And mingling with the volant air Pursue thy beauty always, where On any spot of land or sea My Marguerite might chance to be." His voice failed--tremulous, his eyes Such passion held as well might save A world from wreck; our wedded sighs Made interlude to honied speech, And bound us closer, each to each.

On flew the ship; a bounteous gale Fed to repletion every sail, And Tethys, turbulent no more, Advanced her banners, green and white, Toward the wild Hesperian shore. At length glad signs of land were seen, Strange birds, a friendly escort, came And perched upon the spars, so tame, So numbed and wearied with the keen Cold journey it had been no feat To clasp their wings; but who could treat Those little rovers of the sea, That claimed our hospitality, With less than Christian charity?

The jagged rocks his strong limbs chafe, But soon the slippery sands are gained And I am to his bosom strained. Their coifs the women, wild with gladness, Stripped from their heads and, in their madness, Flung to the waves, an offering fair In witness of the Virgin's care, My solace in the gulphs of sadness. From stem to stern the furor ruled, And Roberval, chagrined, befooled, His sails reset, and sailed away, But half avenged; and we were left Of all the peopled world bereft, To hell's dark brood a helpless prey. But for that he I loved was still Linked to my fate, for good or ill, My thanks to gracious Heaven I wept. The poor old nurse behind us crept, And kneeling on the salty ground, A benediction even there, In answer to her silent prayer, Deep in her withered heart she found. The ship was gone, and with it went All hope of ever seeing more The glory of our native shore; I knew our cruel banishment Was purposed for a lingering death, A dirige of painful breath. Was it in mercy he bestowed The food and arms, a goodly load? Nay, these were meant to stretch the doom That made the Isle an open tomb. "Mourn not--sweetheart!" Eugene began, "Here where the sea-winds rudely fan Thy queenly brow, a queen to me Henceforward thou shalt truly be; And if thou choose to reign alone I'll be thy faithful paladin, And many a noble trophy win In honour of thy virgin throne. Then come, while yet the lord of day Dispenses light and gentle heat, And let us hand and hand survey The wonders of our new retreat. This little kingdom, Marguerite! Encircled by the shining sea, Is large enough for thee and me." 'Twas thus in cheerful mood he sought To lure the current of my thought From cypress shades to run abroad In pleasant ways, approved of God; Nor sought in vain: my spirit caught The hue, the blessedness, the glow That love's endearing words bestow, And like a lark that sudden springs From barren lands and soaring sings, Rose heavenward on hopeful wings.

The tale continued in the Convent grounds; the same group of Nuns listening.

How softly have my limbs reposed! Nor stormy sea, nor haunted land, Nor sorcerer's unhallowed wand, Disturbed the opiate shades that closed The sleepy avenues of sense; And therefore I, without pretence Of weariness or dream-wrought gloom, My tale of yester-eve resume.

Amid the hours, in restful pause We loitered on the moss-clad rocks, And listened to the sober caws Of lonely rooks, and watched thick flocks Of pigeons passing overhead; Or where the scarlet grosbeak sped, A wing?d fire, through clumps of pine Sent chasing looks of joy and wonder. Blue violets and celandine, And modest ferns that glanced from under Gray-hooded boulders, seemed to say-- "O, tarry, gentle folk; O, stay, For we are lonely in this wood, And sigh for human sympathy To cheer our days of solitude." Meek forest flowers, how dear to me! I loved them, kissed them on the stem, And felt that I must ever be Secluded from the world like them.

The long-drawn shadows, eastward cast, Admonished us that day was fast Dissolving, and would soon be past; And we must needs regain the spot Where waited good Nanette our coming. The chattering squirrel we heeded not, Nor paused to list the partridge drumming. The wedded bird was in her nest, And knew from the suspended song That from the green boughs rustling near Had trilled and warbled all day long, A brief space only must she wait The fondling of her chirping mate. With some wise meaning, wise and deep That from her eyes was fain to peep, And wealth of words and lifted hands Our thoughtful servitor, Nanette, Gave kindly greeting ere we met. "Come, children, follow me," she said, And silently the way she led An arpent from the ocean sands, Directly to a piny grove, Where she with wondrous skill had wove A double bower of evergreen, Meet for a fairy king and queen.-- "There, tell your rosaries and take A sabbath slumber; till you wake, Nanette, hard by, will watchful stand, With loaded arquebuse in hand, Your trusty sentinel, for here Some prowling beast may chance appear On no good neighbour's lawful quest; To-morrow I can doze and rest."-- Thus, voluble, my faithful Nurse. Amazed, I stood and could not speak, But kissed her on the brow and cheek, And wept to think my Uncle's curse Should fall on her, so worn and bent, So moved with every good intent.

A flushing joy it was to see That double-chambered arbour fair, Re-calling to my memory The storied lore of things that were My childhood's moonlit witchery. Next morn we sought the circling strand And question made of wind and sea If such a thing might ever be, That, soon or late, from any land Some friendly sail would come that way And waft us thence: in vain, in vain! The hollow wind had nought to say, But, like a troubled ghost, passed by;-- The waste illimitable main And awful silence of the sky Vouchsafed no sign, made no reply.-- Oft times upon some lifted rock That overhung the waves, we sate And listened to the undershock Whose sad persistency, like fate, Made land and sea more desolate.

Again in lighter mood we trod The yellow sands and pale-green sod Strewn with innumerable shells, In whose pink whorls and breathing cells Beauty and wonder slept enshrined, Like holy thoughts in a dreamer's mind. Of these sea-waifs an ample store We gathered, and at twilight bore The treasure to our sylvan home.

Once more the star encumbered dome Of heaven its thrilling story told, And Dian, lovely as of old, Poured lavishly her pallid sheen Upon that tranquil world of green; Whose cool and dewy depths, now rife With luminous and noiseless life, Responded wide; the fire-fly race In myriads lit their tiny lamps; As an army's countless camps The warder in some woody place At nightfall on his watch may trace; So gleamed and flashed those mimic lamps.

The third day came. From shore to shore, Adventurous ever more and more, Our penal Isle we wandered o'er.-- Which way our roving fancy led, A wilding beauty largely spread Rewarded our ambitious feet, And made our banishment too sweet For further censure or repining. Now culling flowers of dainty dyes, Now chasing gaudy butterflies, And now on herbaged slopes reclining, Where purple blooms of lilac trees, And sultry hum of hermit bees Disarmed the hours of weariness.-- Nor can you fail, dear friends, to guess That time for dalliance we found,-- And if we loved to an excess In many a long involved caress, O think how we were cribbed and bound.-- Lush nature and necessity, As witnessed by the Saints above, In one delicious circle wove The pulsings of our destiny.

The great rude world was far away, And like a troubled vision lay Outside our thoughts; its cold deceits, The babble of its noisy streets, And all the selfish rivalry That courts and castles propagate Were alien to our new estate.-- A fragment of propitious sky, Whereon a puff of cloud might lie, Through verdured boughs o'er-arching seen, And glimpses of the sea between Far stretches of majestic trees, Such peaceful sanctities as these Were our abiding joyance now.

So fled our summer dream, as flies An angel through cerulean skies On some good errand swiftly bent, So brief its stay that ere we wist, Gruff Autumn, garmented in mist. His courier winds before him sent, The which, equipped with sleet and hail, Beat down as with an iron flail The grandeur of the woods, and left Their naked solitudes bereft Of bird and flower. The trees stood stark And desolate against the dark Chaotic sky. The mighty sea Its billows hurled upon the shore As if resolved to over-pour And gulph our prison-house. Ah, me! All roofless now, save here and there A tall pine stretched its spear-shaped head Aloft into the gelid air; The hemlock, too, its beauty spread, A tent-like pyramid of green, Symbols of hope amid a scene Where hope grew pale at winter's tread.

Half hid where friendly pine trees spread Perpetual shelter overhead, Hugging a hillside lifted high Betwixt us and the arctic sky, Our cabin stood; a poor defence Against the mute omnipotence Of searching and insidious frost, Which, like a ghoul condemned and lost, The closeness of an inmate claimed;-- But on the rustic hearthstone flamed Dry wood and pine-knots resinous: A ready and abundant hoard When days were long our hands had stored Against the season perilous; And good Nanette, 'twas her desire To feed the bickering tongues of fire That warned the dumb intruder hence.

Such fare as woodland wilds afford, Supplied our ever-cheerful board; Nor such alone; the salt sea wave Its tributary largess gave, All that our lenten wants might crave.

Slow crept the whitened months, so slow-- I sometimes felt I never more Should see the pretty roses blow, Or tread on aught but endless snow, And listen to the nightly roar Of tempest and the ocean flow. Weird voices, woven with the wind, Riding on darkness often came And syllabled the buried name Of Roberval, which, like a hearse, Bore inward to my palsied mind The ghost of his inhuman curse.

How oft, If he but chanced to hear me sigh When wild winds blew, or when the soft And flaky harvest of the sky Descended silent, he would sit Under that snow-thatched roof and tell Such marvellous tales of mirth and wit, They held me like a wizard's spell. Or else some poet's plaintive verse That breathed soft vows of youth and maiden, With love-begotten sorrow laden, In twilight tones he would rehearse; And whilst the rhythmic measure flowed From those attuned lips, my breast With trepidation heaved and glowed, For in such guise was well expressed The master-passion's undertone, Or happy or disconsolate, Of many a lover's wayward fate That bore some semblance to our own.

'Twere over-much to pause and tell How slid the weeks, and all befell Ere we could to the heavens say, "The terror of your rage is past, The gnawing frost, the biting blast, And life is in the matin ray."-- The swallow came, the heron's scream Athwart the marsh-lands, through the woods, Sped resonant; I ceased to dream Of demons, and my waking moods The radiance of the morning took. Upon the bare brown leaves I stood, And saw and heard with raptured look The gleam and murmur of the brook, Which we in summer's plenitude Had traced to many an arbored nook.

'Twas midmost in the budding May, Whilst on my couch of cedar boughs, Perturbed with nameless fears I lay, And breathed to Heaven my silent vows,-- A cloud-like cope of purple hue Descended o'er me, hid me quite, And seemed a soft wind round it blew, And from the mystic wind a voice Spoke low: "Poor child of darkened light! The pure of heart are Heaven's choice; The Virgin who hath seen thy tears, In pity for thy tender years, Will aid thee in thine utmost plight." A hallowed tremor o'er me crept, And in that purple cloud I slept Enshrined, how long I never knew;-- And through my dreams the soft wind blew Like music heard at dusk or dawn, And when I woke and found it gone, In fullness of great joy I wept.

'Twas thus a new revealment came, A something out of nothingness, To which we gave the simple name Of Lua. O, the first caress A mother to her first-born gives!-- Methinks the angels must confess, Through all the after ages' lives, An influence so pure and holy, That human hearts, the proud and lowly, Are touched thereby. I kissed, and kissed My pretty babe, and through the mist Of happy tears upon it gazed In silent thankfulness, and praised The Empress of the skies, whose grace Had glorified that humble place.

The sandy marge again we trod Round the green Isle, and felt that God Was very near,--in ocean's roar, And in the zephyr's scented breath, In summer green, in winter hoar, In joy, in grief, in life, in death, Our Friend and Father evermore.

Again the forest's green arcades Gladly we paced; their sun-lit shades Investured us; the laughing brook That solaced us the year before, Mirrored again my lingering look; In that clear glass I could not fail To see my face grown somewhat pale, But not less fair; we trod once more The lofty cliff whereon Eugene Had crowned me his bride and queen. Pleasant those summer days to walk Where no intrusive step could baulk Our happiness; no tongue to dare Whisper disparagement, and bare The mysteries of Love's free-will, Approved of Heaven to strive for still, The liberty that angels share.-- Another summer's beauty dead, Another winter's cerements wound On tree and shrub; the sheeted ground, The cruel storm-land overhead, The scream of frightened birds, the wind That in its teeth the tree-tops took And worried all day long and shook, These and the monstrous ocean blind With foamy wrath, were ours once more;-- Once more within our cabin mewed Under the pine-tops, crisp and hoar, My fears their old alarms pursued.

Four times the moon had waxed and waned Since summer blooms, so bright and brief, Were mourned for by the falling leaf, And winter winds were all unchained, When came the direful, fatal day. The Spectre of the wide world came In league with winter's fierce array, In league with fiends that hissed the name Of Death around the ruined Isle.

"No evil can such dreams portend:-- Nor need I, dearest, say farewell; For love and faith cannot deceive, And hence I cannot but believe, What holy whispers round me tell, That though thou tarriest here behind, Thy spirit journeyeth with me, Clasping me round whereso I be, A shelter from the bruising wind, A covert from the drenching sea. Then rest, my own brave Marguerite, Rest thee in trust; 'tis meet that I The savage elements defy For thy loved sake, and for the sweet, Sweet sake of her who slumbers there, Pillowed upon her golden hair, Her beauty, love, so like thine own;-- Sweet babe! dear wife!" Ere I could speak He kissed the tear-drop from my cheek, And ere I wist I was alone, The door stood wide, and he had passed Into the dusky void, and vast Uncertainties concealed by Fate. Ah, me! I could but watch and wait

For his return. For his return? I felt my heart within me burn, Then sicken to an icy dread, For seemed a sad voice near me said, "Thou ne'er shall see his face again!" The paragon of noblest men! It could not be; I would not own A prophecy that turned to stone All joys that I had ever known.

The wind increased, the day wore on, And ere the hour was half-way gone That follows noon, a storm of snow Blinded the heavens, and denser grew, And fiercer still the fierce wind blew As night approached, a night of woe, Such as no fiend might add thereto.

From ebb of day till noon of night, And onward till return of light, The signal horn, Nanette and I, Alternate blew, but for reply The wind's unprecedented roar, And ocean thundering round the shore Our labor mocked; and other sounds, Nor of the land, nor sea, nor sky, Our ears profaned; the unleashed hounds Of spleenful hell were all abroad, And round our snow-bound cabin trod, And stormed on clashing wings aloof, And stamped upon the yielding roof, And all our lamentation jeered.

Down the wide chimney-gorge they peered With great green eye-balls fringed with flame;-- The holy cross I kissed and reared, And in sweet Mary's blessed name, Who erst had buoyed my sinking heart, Conjured the foul-faced fiends depart. Their shriekings made a storm more loud Than that before whose fury bowed The hundred-ring?d oaken trees; More fearful, more appalling these Than thunder from the thunder-cloud; But trembling at the sacred sign, And mention of the Name divine, They dared not, could not disobey, But fled in baffled rage away.--

The morrow came, and still the morrow, But neither time, nor pain, nor sorrow, Nor any evil thing could make My stricken soul advisement take Of aught that in the world of sense The fiat of Omnipotence Might choose prescribe; I only know That fever came, whose fiery flow Surged through the temple-gates of thought, Till merciful delirium wrought Release from knowledge, from a world Where Death's black banner stood unfurled.--

Restored--condemned--to conscious life, The parting hour, the storm, the strife, Rose from their tombs and dimly passed, But on my spirit only cast A feeble shade. When known the worst, When every joy that love has nursed Lies cold and dead, a sullen calm Sheds on the bleeding heart a balm That is not peace, and does not heal, But makes it half content to feel The frost upon the withered leaf, To see love's lifeboat rock and reel And founder on the stormy reef.

A languid stupor, chill and gray, Upon my listless being lay-- I knew and felt Eugene was not;-- I saw that in the osier cot, Constructed by his cunning skill, My babe lay sleeping, very still: So very still and pale was she, That when I questioned, quietly, How long since she had fallen asleep, Nanette could only moan and weep, And rock her body to and fro.-- With cautious step, and stooping low, I took the little dimpled hand In mine, and felt the waxen brow. O, Queen of Heaven! clearly now, 'Twas given me to understand That all the warmth of life had fled; My babe, my pretty babe, was dead!-- In stupefaction fixed I stood Smitten afresh; a wailing cry, The wounded love of motherhood, Rose from my heart; mine eyes were dry Denied the blessed drops that give A little ease, that we may live-- Live on, to feel with every breath That life is but the mask of death.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet