The pale, ghostly fathers Remembered her well,
And had cursed her while passing, With taper and bell, But the men of Monhegan,
Of Papists abhorr'd,
Had welcomed and feasted The heretic Lord.
They had loaded his shallop With dun-fish and ball, With stores for his larder, And steel for his wall. Pemequid, from her bastions And turrets of stone, Had welcomed his coming With banner and gun.
And the prayers of the elders Had followed his way, As homeward he glided, Down Pentecost Bay. O! well sped La Tour! For, in peril and pain, His lady kept watch
For his coming again.
O'er the Isle of the Pheasant
The morning sun shone, On the plane-trees which shaded The shores of St. John. "Now, why from yon battlements Speaks not my love! Why waves there no banner My fortress above?"
Dark and wild, from his deck
St. Estienne gazed about,
On fire-wasted dwellings, And silent redoubt;
From the low, shattered walls Which the flame had o'errun, There floated no banner, There thunder'd no gun!
"Half-veiled in the smoke-cloud, Her hand grasped thy pennon, While her dark tresses swayed In the hot breath of cannon! But woe to the heretic, Evermore woe!
When the son of the church And the cross is his foe!
"In the track of the shell, In the path of the ball, Pentagoet swept over
The breach of the wall! Steel to steel, gun to gun,
One moment-and then Alone stood the victor, Alone with his men!
"Of its sturdy defenders, Thy lady alone
Saw the cross-blazon'd banner Float over St. John."
"Let the dastard look to it!" Cried fiery Estienne, "Were D'Aulney King Louis, I'd free her again!
"Alas, for thy lady!
No service from thee
Is needed by her
Whom the Lord hath set free:
Nine days, in stern silence,
Her thraldom she bore,
But the tenth morning came,
And Death opened her door!"
As if suddenly smitten
La Tour stagger'd back; His hand grasped his sword-hilt, His forehead grew black.
He sprang on the deck Of his shallop again :
"We cruise now for vengeance! Give way!" cried Estienne.
"Massachusetts shall hear Of the Huguenot's wrong, And from island and creek-side Her fishers shall throng! Pentagoet shall rue
What his Papists have done, When his palisades echo The Puritan's gun !"
O! the loveliest of heavens Hung tenderly o'er him,
There were waves in the sunshine, And green isles before him: But a pale hand was beckoning The Huguenot on;
And in blackness and ashes
Behind was St. John'
How sweetly on the wood-girt town The mellow light of sunset shone! Each small, bright lake, whose waters still Mirror the forest and the hill,
Reflected from its waveless breast The beauty of a cloudless West, Glorious as if a glimpse were given Within the western gates of Heaven, Left, by the spirit of the star Of sunset's holy hour, ajar!
Beside the river's tranquil flood The dark and low-wall'd dwellings stood, Where many a rood of open land Stretch'd up and down on either hand, With corn-leaves waving freshly green The thick and blacken'd stumps between. Behind, unbroken, deep and dread, The wild, untravell'd forest spread, Back to those mountains, white and cold, Of which the Indian trapper told, Upon whose summits never yet Was mortal foot in safety set.
Quiet and calm, without a fear Of danger darkly lurking near, The weary laborer left his plough— The milk-maid caroll'd by her cow- From cottage door and household hearth Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth. At length the murmur died away, And silence on that village lay- So slept Pompeii, tower and hall, Ere the quick earthquake swallow'd all, Undreaming of the fiery fate
Which made its dwellings desolate!
Hours pass'd away. By moonlight sped The Merrimack along his bed. Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood, Silent, beneath that tranquil beam, As the hush'd grouping of a dream. Yet on the still air crept a sound— No bark of fox-nor rabbit's bound- Nor stir of wings-nor waters flowing- Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing.
Was that the tread of many feet, Which downward from the hill-side beat?
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