Chapter IV

Just then a messenger was hailed;
To God and to their mission true,
Firm-souled, went out to meet the plague
She and devoted sisters two.

Emblazoned in archives of light
Those titles no worldling may hold;
Whilst their star, in our nether sky,
Shines forth in a circlet of gold.

With practised eye, and tender hand,
With quiet mien, and noiseless tread,
They grappled with the dire disease,
Or soothed the sufferer's dying bed.

They listed, with a patient mind,
The longings of the exiled one;

Or treasured, for a mother's ear,
The last faint accents of her son.

Yea! all along that tardy night,
Black with the bitterness of woe,
They toiled in unison with those
Whose skill[Note] and courage foiled the foe.

Fame proudly vaunts her hero dead;
Ambition's tools, in glory's van;
Thrice worthy he of lasting wreath,
Who lives for God, and dies for man.

Ah me! for the silent martyr
Whose tireless feet so surely trod
The pathway leading on and up
Towards the city of our God.

The poison draught entered her blood;
In brightness of Spring's early day
Sister St. Thomas bowed her head,
And passed from her labors for aye.

I know that 'yond the swelling surge,
She reached that tideless, tranquil shore,
Where faith finds anchor nigh its source,
And storms of time are heard no more.

I know that robed in spotless white,
Her pure soul on Mount Zion stands;
And yet I see her as she sat
With satchel in her willing hands.

Ho, peerless crown! Ho, fadeless palm!
Bright land where ransomed spirits be!
True love to God with love to man,
Ensures a blessed eternity.

THE MESSAGE.

Ye sweet summer birds! in your flight
Afar o'er the southern sea,
Will ye stoop from your aerified height
To whisper my lover of me?

Again will ye hoist your bright wing
When ice-fields unloose from our shore;
New tunes through the woodlands shall ring;--
Those tones! shall I hear never more?

Remind him that low in the sky
Sails the god of the long summer day;
That later the glory-glints hie
From their couch, with its curtains of gray.

Yet--tell him through nature's vast range,
Reaped harvests, ripe forests aflame;--
Oh! tell him, through oceans of change,
I'll love him forever, the same.

HIS OFFERING.

"Where's mother?" and with eager haste
He bore Love's offering;
The first, bright flowers which oped their eyes;
Sweet heralds of the Spring.

Those tiny stars which dot with light
The young year's tender green;
As silvery tapers gem the doole
Of evening's sable screen.

Ho! worlding of the callous mind!
Deem this a trifling thing?
O'er little deeds of loyal love
Great mother-love doth sing.

More precious from those chubby hands,
Those sweet, wild flowers of Spring,
Than priceless jewels from the store
Of coroneted king.

LOUISBURG--1745.

"Unbridled appetite was followed by deadly fever, and before Spring 1200 of Peperell's men filled graves in the conquered soil."

Brave maiden-love! bright sister-faith!
Of this Columbian land,
Why should fair youth, as tidal wreck,
Drift up on either strand?
Ye mothers! when your sons set sail
On life's tempestuous seas,
Why pray ye Heaven's propitious calm
To quell each rising breeze?

If haste for fame, or wealth of lore,
Or thirst for worldly pelf
Be set above that priceless boon,
The power to conquer self.
To guard that no insidious foe
The citadel shall win;
To note, as quick-eared sentinel,
The first approach of sin.

The surges tossed in seething foam
Upon that rock-bound shore;
Yet the brave men of New England
Down to the leeward bore.
The Frenchman's warning gun booms forth,
The heavy seas resound;
What reck they! with determined mien
They tread the solid ground.

Mere raw recruits and all untrained
In stratagem of war,

Not Gallia's veterans, skilled in arms,
Their landing place might bar.
Through hardships dire and manifold
They upward, onward press;
On, till the blossomings of hope
Are fruited with success.

And all through proud New England,
And far across the wave,
The name of Massachusetts
And of her soldier brave
Is linked with joy and feasting;
While Britain's fair renown
Gleams fairer for the added gem,
Which decks her ancient crown.

More bright the clear, translucent sky,
More dense the shadows fall;
More glorious the spirits glow,
More black the dismal pall;
Oft, through celestial sunlight,
Breaks forth dull thunder shower;
Oft, over brilliant visionings
Dark disappointments lower.

So, in first flush of triumph,
Crept in an artful foe,
Whose craft and daring overcame
Without one open blow.
More certain than the Gascon shot
In siege, on field of war;
And deadlier than the scalping knife
Of subtle Indian, far.

And those brave, who never faltered
Before a human form,
Who never shrank from danger's path,
Or cowered beneath a storm,
Fall down before that reaper's hand
As falls the sun scorched grain;
And Glory's wreath, and Victory's song
Alike are void and vain.

THE WOODS AND THE SEA.

They gathered round with feeling heart,
From hamlet far and near;
They strove in vain, with kindly words,
Her stricken soul to cheer.
For over the night of anguish
Dawned never break of day;
That sun which sank in frowning skies
Left ne'er a softening ray.

Oh broken heart! Oh empty life!
Oh sad, low monotone!
"The woods and the sea have ruined me;
Alone! yea all alone!"

She'd left her peaceful, native shores
And dared the stormy wave
With him whose troth was love and truth;
The young, the strong and brave.

They raised a cabin on the wild,
In shade of branching tree;
And there the mother reared the child,
And time passed merrily.

Toil reaped the gain of comfort sweet;
And by the fireside blaze,
Glad souls went up in grateful song,
In voice of joy and praise.
Sweet lyrics of the heather land
The evening hours beguiled;
While age re-lived its youth once more,
And happy childhood smiled.

Dark shadows mar the brightest heaven,
And, sharp as warning bell,
Sore tidings of their sailor's death
Upon that homestead fell.
Then, when the winter spread earth's shroud
Of pure white, glistening snow,
Upon those mourners fell apace
A still more bitter blow.

All night, amid the biting frost,
With darkest gloom o'er head,
Upon the fir-tree's broken boughs
Three wanderers made their bed.
But, ere the dawn had streaked the sky
With glorious hues of day,
The brightest life e'er blessed a home
Was stilled in death for aye.

The seasons cycled; peaceful years
Again verged into woe;

By fatal stroke of falling tree
The silvered head lay low.
She stood beside the aged form;
Her brain seemed all on fire;--
The billows rolled, the forest waved
O'er fated sons and sire.

Oh narrow bounds of earthly ill!
Oh sad and suffering throng!
Oh ye! who drink the bitter cup;
It cannot be for long.
The woe-worn frame now resteth well;
The soul hath found its own;
Where shades of earth no more may blight,
In lustre of the Throne.

No more she sings, in lonely grief
Her weary monotone:
"The woods and the sea have ruined me;
Alone! yea, all alone!"

THE GATE.

The light of love o'er her features played,
The silver streaks through her bright hair strayed.

Her noble mien and her gentle hand
Proclaimed her daughter of no mean land.

Voice and action attested her birth,
Better than mere gilt baubles of earth.

Winter had folded its shroud and fled;
The daisies peeped from their grassy bed.

The dark mounds rose from their circling green;
Young plants smiled back to the bright'ning sheen.

No wealth of splendor, yet choice as gold
Those gifts from hands of the loved of old.

Hands which will clasp my hand nevermore
Till feet stand firm on the tideless shore.

Careless young Playful had oped the gate;
Hastening footsteps, that could not wait,

Had sped where playtime and boyhood meet;
The gate, forgot, swung ope from the street,

From the highway where the cattle roam,
And Arabs find their kindliest home.

The gate might swing till the twilight hours;
Meantime, alack for the tender flowers!