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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!

But, beneath the low arch

Of its doorway there stood A pale priest of Rome,

In his cloak and his hood. With the bound of a lion,

La Tour sprang to land, On the throat of the Papist

He fastened his hand.

“ Speak, son of the Woman,

Of scarlet and sin !
What wolf has been prowling

My castle within ?"
From the grasp of the soldier

The Jesuit broke,
Half in scorn, half in sorrow,

He smiled as he spoke:
“No wolf, Lord of Estienne,

Has ravaged thy hall, But thy red-handed rival,

With fire, steel, and ball !
On an errand of mercy

I hitherward came,
While the walls of thy castle

Yet spouted with flame. "Pentagoet's dark vessels

Were moored in the bay, Grim sea-lions, roaring

Aloud for their prey.” “But what of my lady ?”

Cried Charles of Estienne : 6 On the shot-crumbled turret

Thy lady was seen :

“ 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.


sprang on the deck
Of his shallop again :
“ We cruise now for vengeance !

Give way !” cried Estienne.

“ Massachusetts shall bear

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



0! the loveliest of heavens

Hung tenderly o'er him,
There were waves in the sunshine,

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-walld 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, untravelld 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,
Şilent, 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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