The Poetical Works of Mrs. Leprohon Part 11

One moment,--then her proud glance fled, her form she humbly bowed, A softened light stole o'er her brow, she prayed to heaven aloud: "Hear me, Thou Great and Glorious One, Protector of my race, Whom, in the far-off Spirit land, I'll soon see face to face!

"Pour down Thy blessings on my tribe, may they triumphant rise Above the guileful Iroquois--Thine and our enemies; And give me strength to bear each pang with courage high and free, That, dying thus, I may be fit to reign, oh G.o.d! with Thee."

Her prayer was ended, and again, like crowned and sceptred Queen, She wore anew her lofty smile, her high and royal mien, E'en though the Chief the signal gave, and quick two warriors dire, Sprang forth to lead the dauntless girl to the lit funeral pyre.

Back, with an eye of flas.h.i.+ng scorn, recoiled she from their grasp, "Nay, touch me not, I'd rather meet the coil of poisoned asp!

My aged sire, and all my tribe will learn with honest pride That, as befits a Huron's child, their chieftain's daughter died!"

She dashed aside her tresses dark with bright and fearless smile, And like a fawn she bounded on the fearful funeral pile; And even while those blood-stained men fulfilled their cruel part They praised that maiden's courage rare, her high and dauntless heart.

AN AUTUMN EVENING AT MURRAY BAY.

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 sh.o.r.e, While the sea-birds' weird voices mingle with their surging roar.

Vainly seeks the eye a flow'ret 'mid the desolation drear, 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 hide; On they come, the misty ma.s.ses 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 pa.s.sing through, 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 suns.h.i.+ne cast; Whilst the moan of winds and waters, with a strange, mysterious art, Seem to awaken drear forebodings in the listening gazer's heart.

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, I will join the joyous circle of the dear ones gathered there, Who with smiles will greet my advent, and in that delightful room Shake aside the dreary shadows of this scene of autumn gloom.

SISTER M. B.'S ARRIVAL IN MONTREAL, 1654.

It is now two hundred years and more Since first set foot on Canadian sh.o.r.e That saint-like heroine, fair and pure, Prepared all things for Christ to endure; Resigning rank and kindred ties, 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, But frowning forest and tangled wood Made the land a dreary solitude.

Nor mansion, chapel, nor glinting spire Reflected the sunset's fading fire; The wigwam sent up its faint blue smoke, 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'a.s.sa.s.sin's blow; 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 The dusky daughters, unfettered, free, Of forest tribes, and, with woman's art, Enn.o.bling, softening each youthful heart, Fas.h.i.+oned them into true womanhood, Slow unto evil but prompt to good.

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-- Chief need of our s.e.x in days gone by.

Sister Bourgeois' daughters have n.o.bly all Responded unto her gracious call; Through suns.h.i.+ne and joy, through storm and pain-- In one unfailing, unbroken chain Of teachers devoted--nought left undone To fulfil the task by their foundress begun.

A TOUCHING CEREMONY.

The following verses were suggested by a touching ceremony which lately took place in the chapel of the Congregation Convent, Notre Dame, Montreal, the beloved Inst.i.tution in which the happy days of my girlhood were pa.s.sed. The ceremony in question was the renewal of her vows by the Venerable Mother Superior, just fifty years from the date of her first profession, which was made at the early age of fifteen. In the world, in the few rare instances in which both bride and bridegroom live to witness the fiftieth anniversary of their union, the "golden wedding," as it is usually called, is generally celebrated with great pomp and rejoicing; tis but just, then, that in religion, the faithful spouses of the Saviour should welcome with equal satisfaction the anniversary of the epoch which witnessed the mystical union contracted with their Heavenly Bridegroom.

Montreal, Sept. 28, 1859.

On a golden autumn morning, Just fifty years ago, When harvests ripe lay smiling In the suns.h.i.+ne's yellow glow, A pious group was standing Round the lighted altar's flame In the humble convent chapel Of the Nuns of Notre Dame.

A girl of fifteen summers, With gentle, serious air, In novice garb of purple, Was humbly kneeling there; Uttering the vows so binding Whose magic power sufficed To make that child-like maiden The well-loved Bride of Christ.

No troubled, anxious shadow O'er-clouded that young brow, As with look and voice unfaltering She breathed her solemn vow: No regretful glances cast she On the pomps that she had spurned, Nor the dream of love and pleasure From which she had coldly turned.

Fifty years of joy and sorrow Since that day have o'er her flown-- Years of words and deeds of mercy, Living but for G.o.d alone-- And again a group is standing, By this holy scene enticed, To renew the golden bridal Of this faithful spouse of Christ.

True, her brow has lost the smoothness And her cheek the fresh young glow That adorned them on that autumn Morning--fifty years ago; But, oh! think not that her Bridegroom Loves her anything the less; He sees but the inward beauty And the spirit's loveliness.

Cloister honors long have fallen Ceaseless, constant, to her lot, But, like cloister honors falling, Unto one who sought them not; Daughter meek of the great Foundress Of thy honored house and name, Worthy art thou to be Abbess Of the nuns of Notre Dame!

ON THE DEATH OF THE SAME REVEREND NUN, THE VENERABLE MOTHER ST. MADELEINE, TEN YEARS LATER.

In Memoriam.

Grief reigns now within the convent walls, And sadly float through its silent halls The notes of a requiem--solemn, clear, Falling like wail on each listening ear, And with tearful eyes and features pale, With low bowed head and close drawn veil, To the convent church, round a bier to kneel, The daughters of Marguerite Bourgeoys steal.

Scant is the mourning pomp displayed, Nor plumes nor hangings of gloomy shade, But rev'rend prelates and priests are there, With crowds of mourners joining in prayer; Each sister's heart is filled with grief, To which faith alone can bring relief, Deploring the loss of that sainted nun, Friend, mother and abbess, all in one.

Yet why should sorrow fill thus each breast?

That well loved one has entered her rest, To live in eternal, cloudless light, To live in our memories, blessed and bright; Her chair may be vacant--her place unfilled-- But her mission high was all fulfilled.

And the thought of how well she did her part Will ever dwell in each sister's heart.

Sixty-one years pa.s.sed in convent home, Ama.s.sing wealth for a world to come, Sixty-one years of constant prayer, Of cloister duties fulfilled with care, Of gentle aid to each sister dear, Kind tender counsel--sympathy's tear, Of high commune with her Maker, known Perchance to herself and to G.o.d alone.

Sixty-one years, oh! think of it well, Since first she entered the convent cell!

On her cheek youth's soft and roseate dyes, Its radiant light in her cloudless eyes, Turning from earth's alluring wiles, From worldly promptings, from pleasure's smiles, From love's soft pleading look and tone, To give herself unto G.o.d alone.