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Ode for the Queen's Jubilee

FLEURS DE LYS.

The Captured Flag P?re Brosse L'Ordre de Bon Temps Champlain The Priest and the Minister Pilot The Secret of the Saguenay Jules' Letter The Oak Nelson's Appeal for Maisonneuve

RED ROSES.

To One Who Loves Red Roses Three Sonnets Long Ago At Chateauguay A Birthday The Lovers The Sea Shell A January Day Remembrance In Absence Love Guides Us The Lover's Appeal

OTHER POEMS.

The Spirit Wife Rhodope's Shoe Hope and Despair Carlotta Equality Lachine De Salaberry at Chateauguay Tennyson At Rainbow Lake The Race My Treasure Welcoming the New Year A Greater Than He Life in Nature Winter and Summer Dauntless A Child's Kiss The Grave and the Tree A Mother's Jewels Notes

ODE FOR THE QUEEN'S JUBILEE. 1837-1887.

Set the crown on the maiden's brow, And silence the bells disconsolate. Peal! Ye loud joy-bells, now; Over city and wold let your echoes reverberate. Peal! for the crowning of smiles and the death of tears, Peal! for the crowning of hopes and the death of fears, Peal! for a Queen who shall rule us for fifty years. The maiden is crowned with her glorious crown, Heavy with care; Yet it shall never burden her down Into despair. We will watch over her with our love, And our loyalty prove. We will bear, each, his share Of the worry, grief, and pain That may seek to mar her reign.

Blow! ye silvery bugles, over the sunny land, Our Queen has yielded to love. Ring out with merry clangor, O ye bells! Ye mountains! give the laughing bells reply.

FLEURS DE LYS.

THE CAPTURED FLAG.

Loudly roared the English cannon, loudly thundered back our own, Pouring down a hail of iron from their battlements of stone, Giving Frontenac's proud message to the clustered British ships: "I will answer your commander only by my cannons' lips." Through the sulphurous smoke below us, on the Admiral's ship of war, Faintly gleamed the British ensign, as through cloudwrack gleams a star, And above our noble fortress, on Cape Diamond's rugged crest-- Like a crown upon a monarch, like an eagle in its nest-- Streamed our silken flag emblazoned with the royal fleur de lys, Flinging down a proud defiance to the rulers of the sea. As we saw it waving proudly, and beheld the crest it bore, Fiercely throbbed our hearts within us, and with bitter words we swore, While the azure sky was reeling at the thunder of our guns, We would strike that standard never, while Old France had gallant sons.

Long and fiercely raged the struggle, oft our foes had sought to land, But with shot and steel we met them, met and drove them from the strand, Though they owned them not defeated, and the stately Union Jack, Streaming from the slender topmast, seemed to wave them proudly back. Louder rose the din of combat, thicker rolled the battle smoke, Through whose murky folds the crimson tongues of thundering cannon broke, And the ensign sank and floated in the smoke-clouds on the breeze, As a wounded, fluttering sea-bird floats upon the stormy seas. While we looked upon it sinking, rising through the sea of smoke, Lo! it shook, and bending downwards, as a tree beneath a stroke, Hung one moment o'er the river, then precipitously fell Like proud Lucifer descending from high heaven into hell. As we saw it flutter downwards, till it reached the eager wave, Not Cape Diamond's loudest echo could have matched the cheer we gave; Yet the English, still undaunted, sent an answering echo back: Though their flag had fallen conquered, still their fury did not slack, And with louder voice their cannon to our cannonade replied, As their tattered ensign drifted slowly shoreward with the tide.

There was one who saw it floating, and within his heart of fire, Beating in a Frenchman's bosom, rose at once a fierce desire, That the riven flag thus resting on the broad St. Lawrence tide Should, for years to come, betoken how France humbled England's pride. As the stag leaps down the mountain, with the baying hounds in chase, So the hero, swift descending, sought Cape Diamond's rugged base, And within the water, whitened by the bullets' deadly hail, Springing, swam towards the ensign with a stroke that could not fail. From the shore and from the fortress we looked on with bated breath, For around him closer, closer, fell the messengers of death, And as nearer, ever nearer, to the floating flag he drew, Thicker round his head undaunted still the English bullets flew. He has reached and seized the trophy. Ah! what cheering rent the skies, Mingled with deep English curses, as he shoreward brought his prize! Slowly, slowly, almost sinking, still he struggled to the land, And we hurried down to meet him, as he reached the welcome strand. Proudly up the rock we bore him, with the flag that he had won, And that night the English vessels left us with the setting sun.

P?RE BROSSE.

He had been with the Indians all the day, But sat with us at eve, Chatting and laughing in his genial way, Till came the hour to leave; And then he rose, we with him, for we loved Our good old parish priest, Who all his lifetime in our midst had moved At death-bed and at feast.

He raised his hand for silence, and each head Was bowed as though in prayer, Expectant of his blessing, but instead He stood in silence there. Thrice he essayed to speak, and thrice in vain, And then his voice came back, Vibrating in a deep, triumphal strain That it was wont to lack.

"My children, we must part. My task is done. God calls me to His rest, And though my labors seem scarce yet begun, Surely He knoweth best. I have grown old in laboring for Him, My hair with age is white, My footsteps feeble, and my eyesight dim-- But all shall change to-night.

"When strikes the hour of twelve, my weary soul On earth shall cease to dwell, As sign of which the chapel bell shall toll Its slow funereal knell. Then seek me, if you will, and you shall find Upon the altar stair The prison-house my soul will leave behind, Kneeling as though in prayer.

"Seek, then, P?re Compain, on the Isle aux Coudres, Nor fear the rising gale, For Heaven will guide you through the angry flood, And it shall not prevail. He will be waiting for you on the sands, Amid the morning gloom, To be your comrade, and, with kindly hands Consign me to my tomb."

He ceased, and left us, as though turned to stone, All motionless and still: And faintly fell his footsteps, as alone He slowly climbed the hill. Then we awoke, and all so wondrous seemed, His words so strange at best, We almost fancied we had slept and dreamed That he had been our guest.

We turned unto our merriment anew, With some kind thoughts for him; Yet as the hour of midnight nearer drew, And waxed the hearth fire dim, A silence fell upon us, and in fear We stopped and held our breath, As though more clearly through the gloom to hear The promised knell of death.

There had been something in his face that night That thrilled our hearts with fear, An undefinable, mysterious light, Which told us Heaven was near. He had a deeper lustre in his eyes, His smile had seemed more bright, Till, looking in his face, all Paradise Seemed opened to our sight.

Soon chimed the clock. And scarcely had it ceased, Than tolled the chapel bell, As though for some long-suffering soul released, Its slow funereal knell, And on its ebon wings the rising gale Swept landward from the sea, And mingled with the chapel bell's long wail Its own sad symphony.

We found him lying lifeless, as he said, Before the altar, prone, Nor laid our sinful hands upon the dead, But left him there alone, And launched our frail canoe upon the tide, Not marvelling to behold Before our prow the billows fall aside, Like the Red Sea of old.

On every hand the screaming waters flung Their great, white arms on high, And over all the thundering storm-clouds hung And battled in the sky. Yet fearless we sailed on, until when day Broke, panting, through the night, The fertile Isle aux Coudres before us lay, Its beach with breakers white.

And there, upon that tempest-beaten strand, Waiting, P?re Compain stood And beckoned to us with uplifted hand Across the raging flood. No need to tell our errand, for that night P?re Brosse had sought his cell, And told him all, then faded from his sight, Breathing a kind farewell.

L'ORDRE DE BON TEMPS.

When Champlain with his faithful band Came o'er the stormy wave To dwell within this lonely land, Their hearts were blithe as brave; And Winter, by their mirth beguiled, Forgot his sterner mood, As by the prattling of a child A churl may be subdued.

Among the company there came A dozen youths of rank, Who in their eager search for fame From no adventure shrank; But, with the lightness of their race That hardship laughs to scorn, Pursued the pleasures of the chase 'Till night from early morn.

And soon their leader, full of mirth. And politic withal-- Well knowing that no spot on earth Could hold them long in thrall, Unless into their company, Its duties and its sport, Were introduced the pageantry And etiquette of court--

Filled with a pardonable pride In nobles wont to dwell, Each with his predecessor vied In bounty to excel, And thus it was the festive board With beaver, otter, deer, And fish and fowl was richly stored, Throughout the changing year.

At mid-day--for our sires of old Dined when the sun was high-- To where the cloth was spread, behold These merry youths draw nigh, Each bearing on a massy tray Some dainty for the feast, While the Grand Master leads the way, Festivity's high priest!

Then seated round the banquet board, Afar from friends and home, They drank from goblets freely poured To happier days to come. And once again, in story, shone The sun, that erst in France Was wont, in days long past and gone, Amid the vines to dance.

Still later, when the sun had set, And round the fire they drew To sing, or tell a tale ere yet Too old the evening grew, He who had ruled them for the day His sceptre did resign, And drink to his successor's sway A brimming cup of wine.

CHAMPLAIN.

Would that with the bold Champlain, And his comrades staunch and true, I had crossed the stormy main, Golden visions to pursue: And had shared Their lot, and dared Fortune with that hardy crew!

Thus I murmur, as I close Parkman, day being long since sped, Yet in vain I seek repose, For the stirring words I read In the sage's Learned pages, Still are ringing in my head.

All the perils of the sea. All the dangers of the land, Of the waves that hungrily Leapt round Champlain's stalwart band, Of the foes, That round him rose, Numerous as the ocean sand.

Every trial he underwent, Winter's famine and disease, Weeks in dreary journey spent, Battle, treason, capture--these Sweep my mind, As sweeps the wind, Sighing, through the forest trees.

Wandering through the tangled brakes, Where the treacherous Indians hide, Launching upon crystal lakes, Stemming Uttawa's dark tide; Still my sight, Pursues his flight Through the desert, far and wide.

With the sunlight in his face, I behold him as he plants At Cape Diamond's rugged base, In the glorious name of France, Yon fair town That still looks down On the river's broad expanse.

I behold him as he hurls Proud defiance at the foe, And the fleur-de-lys unfurls High o'er Admiral Kirkt below, Till he slips, With all his ships, Down the river, sad and slow.

And I see him lying dead, On that dreary Christmas day, While the priests about his bed Weeping kneel, and softly pray, As the bell Rings out its knell For a great soul passed away!

Yes, a gallant man was he, That brave-hearted, old French tar, Whose great name through history Shines on us, as from afar Through the gray Of dawning day Gleams the glorious Morning Star!

THE PRIEST AND THE MINISTER.

From Old France once sailed a vessel, Bearing hearts that came to nestle In Acadia's breast and wrestle With its Winters cold. Priests and ministers it bore, Who had sought that desert shore, Filled with ardor to restore Lost sheep to the fold.

Yet though on such errand wending, They debated without ending, Each his cherished faith defending Morning, noon and night. Never on the balmy air Heavenward rose united prayer, Stout Champlain was in despair At the godless sight.

Late and early they debated, Never ceasing, never sated, Till the very sailors hated Them and their debates. Not at dinner were they able, Even, to forego their Babel, But, disputing, smote the table Till they jarred the plates.

Tossed about by the gigantic Billows of the wild Atlantic, Still they argued, until, frantic With religious zeal, Tonsured priests and Huguenots From discussions came to blows, Sieur de Monts had no repose From their fierce appeal.

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