Strophes XLI à LX

There was a joyousness within her eyes,
Like the sun’s light illumining the blue
Of heaven, making earth a paradise.
Gladness, like a celestial spirit passing through
The gates of morn, rose white-winged on the view,
Whene’er you looked upon her lovely face.
Love sat upon her lips, and love’s sweet dew
Fell from them, leaving there a sunny trace,
As ’f touched by angel’s wings they caught angelic grace.

I could have mellowed in her light of Love,
And breathed my soul out on her lips of Song!
Afar off have I worshipped her, and strove
With my pure passion day by day. How long
Will my lone spirit wander through the throng
Of human hearts until it lives in thine 2
Know, Maiden, that my love is deep and strong
As yonder Rapid, and as serpentine,
Rock after rock it strikes, seeking a joy divine.

The balmy summer days are here,
    The Robin warbleth in the tree,
    But Summer, Spring, nor song-birds bring
    One note of love from thee.
The roses will put forth their buds,
    Green leaves adorn each ardent tree,
But in my heart will never start
    One rose-bud hope for thee.
The sun leans down to kiss the flowers,
    To flush the blossoms of the tree,
But to my love no carrier-dove
    Brings warmth and light from thee.
The happy woodlands throb with song,
    Music is breathed from tree to tree;
With Winter’s fleece these songs will cease,
    But not my love for thee.

The dancing current, like a happy child,
Mellifluously laughs, as down the stream
We glide, past many a cot and rural wild,
Like visions mellowed by the moonlight’s beam.
We cannot stay for these; a loftier theme
Awaits us. See! our shallop seems to feel
The joyous impulse of our waking dream,
And parts the waters with its anxious keel,
Exulting in the joys that through our bosoms steal.

Yet there are graceful landscapes thickly strewn
Along these banks, to muse on and admire;
Here stands a maiden cottage all alone,
There the low church extends its gleaming spire.—
Scenes, where Arcadian dreamers might retire,
And live in pastoral meditation, free
From every low, inordinate desire.
Yon group of dwellings—what felicity
Speaks from their eloquent repose! where even he

Of lonely Vaucluse might have sighed, and ne’er
Been tempted by fair Psyche’s winning smile
From his pure love’s Penelope. And here,
Varennes, like a fair Eden purged from guile,
Sits smiling on the night; yon aged pile
With its bright spires reposing on its breast.
Yonder, the Holy Mountain of Rouville,
Like a huge cloud that had come down to rest,
Looms far against the sky, and on its sombre crest

Shineth the Pilgrim’s Cross, that long hath cheered
The weary wanderer from distant lands,
Who, as his stately pinnace onward steered,
Bless’d his Faith’s symbol with uplifted hands,
Swift through the Richelieu! Past the white sands
That spangle fair Batiscan’s pleasant shore
We glide, where fairy dwellings dot the strands;
How gracefully yon aged elms brood o’er
The shrubbery that yearneth for their mystic lore,

When the winds commune with the tell-tale limbs,
And many-voicéd leaves, That is St. Pierre,
Where the tall poplars—which the night bedims,
Lift their sharp outlines through the solemn air.
Past these white cottages to L’Avenir,
Another site of beauty. Lovelier yet
The Plateau, slumbering in the foliage there;
And gay Cap Sainte, like a Wild Love, beset
With wooers, bringing gems to deck her coronet,

The Whippoorwill, among the slumberous trees,
Flingeth her solitary triple cry
Upon the busy lips of every breeze,
That wafts it in wild echoes up the sky,
And through the answering woods, incessantly.
Surely some pale Ophelia’s spirit wails
In this remorseless bird’s impassioned sigh,
That like a lost soul haunts the lonely dales!
Maiden, sing me one of thy pleasing madrigals.

Ere the dawn, one morning early,
    Jeannie tripped the meadows o’er,
Passing by the fields of barley,
    By the cottage at the shore:
“There his faith was pledged and broken,
    *Neath yon tree beside the Mill!”
From the tree, when she had spoken,
    Came a dismal “Whip-poor-will!”
    “Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will! ”
    From the tree beside the Mill
    Piped the doleful Whippoorwill.

“Truly,” Jeannie said, “poor Willie?
    He was false to heaven and me;
He was false, and I was silly,
    Yet the bird sings heartlessly.
Nevermore we’ll sit at gloaming,
    *Neath the tree beside the Mill;
Willie’s heart has gone a-roaming! ”
    Quoth the harsh bird—* Whip-poor-will!”
    “Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will!”
    From the tree beside the Mill
    Piped the doleful Whippoorwill.

Jeannie’s heart was all compassion,
    Jeannie’s lips a pardon sighed;
“Absent loves are all the fashion!”—
    “Whip-poor-will!” the rude bird cried,
From the pasture tripped the Maiden,
    With her foamy milking pail,
Every roaming breeze was laden
    With the strange bird’s heartless wail:
    ‘ Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will!’
    In the tree beside the Mill
    Piped the doleful Whippoorwill.

From the cottage by the river
    Truant Willie, blushing, came,
Jeannie’s heart would still misgive her,
    Though he softly spake her name:
“Ever since that evening, Jeannie,
    That we parted at the Mill,
All the night long, bright or rainy,
    Shrieked that noisy Whippoorwill.”
    “Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will!”
    From the tree beside the Mill
    Piped the saucy Whippoorwill.

On the Maiden’s lips paused Willie,
    Jeannie never asked the cause,
But all patience, like a silly
    Little Maiden as she was,
Held her mouth up like a flower,
    That her bee might sip his fill,
While the bird, with startling power,
Shrieked his wildest “Whip-poor-will!”
    “Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will!”?
    Nevermore beside the Mill
    Piped that noisy Whippoorwill,

Th’ inconstant moon has passed behind a cloud,
Cape Diamond shows its sombre-colored bust,
As if the mournful Night had thrown a shroud
Over this pillar to a hero’s dust.
Well may she weep; hers is no trivial trust;
His cenotaph may crumble on the plain,
Here stands a pile that dares the rebel’s lust
For spoliation: one that will remain—
A granite seal—brave Wolfe! set upon Victory’s Fane.

Quebec! how regally it crowns the height,
Like a tanned giant on a solid throne!
Unmindful of the sanguinary fight,
The roar of cannon mingling with the moan
Of mutilated soldiers years agone,
That gave the place a glory and a name
Among the nations, France was heard to groan;
    England rejoiced, but checked the proud acclaim—
A brave young chief had fall’n to vindicate her fame.

Wolfe and Montcalm! two nobler names ne’er graced
The page of history, or the hostile plain;
No braver souls the storm of battle faced,
Regardless of the danger or the pain.
They pass’d unto their rest without a stain
Upon their nature or their generous hearts.
One graceful column to the noble twain
Speaks of a nation’s gratitude, and starts
The tear that Valor claims, and Feeling’s self imparts.

Far up the Golden Ladder of the Morn
Had climbed the sun, upon the Autumn day
That led me to these battlements. The corn
Upon the distant fields was ripe. Away
To the far left the swelling highlands lay;
The quiet cove, the river, bright and still;
The gallant ships that made the harbor gay;
And, like a Thought swayed by a potent Will,
Point Levi, seated at the foot of the Old Hill:

‘What were the Gardens and the Terraces,
The stately dwellings, and the monuments
Upreared to human fame, compared to these?
Those ancient hills stood proudly ere the tents
Of the first Voyageurs—swart visitants
From the fair, sunny Loire—were pitched upon
Wild Stadacona’s* height. The armaments
Whose mighty thunder clove the solid stone,
Defaced yon granite cape, that answered groan for groan.

Down the rough slope Montmorenci’s torrent pours,
We cannot view it by this feeble ray,
But, hark! its thunders leap along the shores,
Thrilling the cliffs that guard the beauteous bay;
And now the moon shines on our downward way,
Showing fair Orleans’ enchanting Isle,
Its fields of grain, and meadows sweet with hay;
Along the fertile shores fresh landscapes smile,
Cheering the watchful eye for many a pleasant mile.

It seems like passing by some Fairy-realm,
The cottages are whiter than the snow.
Joy at the prow, and true love at the helm,
Both heaven and earth smile on us as we go.
Surely they never feel the breath of woe,
The dwellers on this Isle. Spire after spire
Points to the heav’n whose presence seems to glow

    Within their happy bosoms who aspire
To naught beyond their hearths, their own dear household fire.

Peace to their cheerful homes! where bless’d Content
Reigns paramount throughout the circling year.
A courteous, gentle race, as ever blent
Religion with Simplicity. The cheer
That greets the stranger who may wander here
Glows with the zeal of hospitality.
Peace to their quiet homes! where blanching fear
Ne’er enters, nursed by jealous rivalry.
From the world’s bitter strife the Habitant is free.

The billowy River rolls its proudest wave,
The zephyrs have fled, dancing, o’er the hills,
And the winds tread the waters, wildly-grave,
Like the Storm-Harpists gliding down the rills
Of their own native mountains, ’gainst their wills.
Brighter the moon above us; brighter all
The patient stars, whose pensive beauty thrills
Our yearning souls, like distant tones that fall
On waiting ears hearkening for an Angel’s call.

Brighter the night, and whiter every cot
And glancing spire that silvers in the moon;
Intensely glows each little garden plot;
The sparkling villages at random strewn
Along the brooding shore, where Bacchus,* boon
Companion of the merry crowd, once held
His regal court: his prudent subjects soon
Stripped off his purple vestments, and rebelled,
And wisely still disown the Monarch they expelled.

Now swiftly down towards the salt-breathed sea
The cool wind wafts us, and we bid farewell
To the lone Isle that slumbers on our lee;
Farewell, perchance, forever. Who can tell?
Years hence, in separate lands, our thoughts may dwell,
But for a little moment, on this night,
And Memory may wake within her cell,
And lead us here by this same starry light,
Our long-divided souls, embracing, reunite.

    Part! the word must not be spoken!
    Part! our hearts must ne’er be broken!
    Rivers meet and mix forever,
    Why are we, love, doomed to sever?
    Oh! the cruel, cruel anguish!
    How the senses droop and languish!

For the fiat may be spoken,
And our hearts may both be broken!

Comes the Night, the Evening greeting,
Eyer thus behold them meeting;
But for us—what hope before us?
Not a star is shining o’er us;
But the heav’n of love is clouded,
Wildly, darkly, blackly shrouded,
For an iron tongue hath spoken,
And our hope in hope is broken!

In my brain a fire is burning,
Backward to my heart returning,
And my nerves, that drooped to sadness,
Are re-strung to desp’rate madness!
Leap, ye burning thoughts that rend me,
Let not Pity’s voice befriend me!
Curs’d the lips that lie hath spoken!
For our hearts shall not be broken!

Cape Tormente lifts itself above the hills
That gird it round about, like sentinels
Guarding some great king’s palace, whose grandeur fills
Their hearts with pride and love. Up the steep dells
Crawl the night-vapors, dimming the gray swells
Of mount and hill that in the distance rise,
Cloud-like and faint. Ev’n on those uplands dwells.
    The faithful Habitant; and when he dies,
His children, jealous of the ancient family ties,