Fleurs De Lys, and Other Poems — Reading Notes

There was one who saw it floating, and within his heart of fire, Beating in a Frenchman's bosom, rose at once a fierce desire, That the riven flag thus resting on the broad St. Lawrence tide Should, for years to come, betoken how France humbled England's pride. As the stag leaps down the mountain, with the baying hounds in chase, So the hero, swift descending, sought Cape Diamond's rugged base, And within the water, whitened by the bullets' deadly hail, Springing, swam towards the ensign with a stroke that could not fail. From the shore and from the fortress we looked on with bated breath, For around him closer, closer, fell the messengers of death, And as nearer, ever nearer, to the floating flag he drew, Thicker round his head undaunted still the English bullets flew. He has reached and seized the trophy. Ah! what cheering rent the skies, Mingled with deep English curses, as he shoreward brought his prize! Slowly, slowly, almost sinking, still he struggled to the land, And we hurried down to meet him, as he reached the welcome strand. Proudly up the rock we bore him, with the flag that he had won, And that night the English vessels left us with the setting sun.

He had been with the Indians all the day, But sat with us at eve, Chatting and laughing in his genial way, Till came the hour to leave; And then he rose, we with him, for we loved Our good old parish priest, Who all his lifetime in our midst had moved At death-bed and at feast.

He raised his hand for silence, and each head Was bowed as though in prayer, Expectant of his blessing, but instead He stood in silence there. Thrice he essayed to speak, and thrice in vain, And then his voice came back, Vibrating in a deep, triumphal strain That it was wont to lack.

"My children, we must part. My task is done. God calls me to His rest, And though my labors seem scarce yet begun, Surely He knoweth best. I have grown old in laboring for Him, My hair with age is white, My footsteps feeble, and my eyesight dim-- But all shall change to-night.

"When strikes the hour of twelve, my weary soul On earth shall cease to dwell, As sign of which the chapel bell shall toll Its slow funereal knell. Then seek me, if you will, and you shall find Upon the altar stair The prison-house my soul will leave behind, Kneeling as though in prayer.

"Seek, then, Père Compain, on the Isle aux Coudres, Nor fear the rising gale, For Heaven will guide you through the angry flood, And it shall not prevail. He will be waiting for you on the sands, Amid the morning gloom, To be your comrade, and, with kindly hands Consign me to my tomb."

He ceased, and left us, as though turned to stone, All motionless and still: And faintly fell his footsteps, as alone He slowly climbed the hill. Then we awoke, and all so wondrous seemed, His words so strange at best, We almost fancied we had slept and dreamed That he had been our guest.

We turned unto our merriment anew, With some kind thoughts for him; Yet as the hour of midnight nearer drew, And waxed the hearth fire dim, A silence fell upon us, and in fear We stopped and held our breath, As though more clearly through the gloom to hear The promised knell of death.

There had been something in his face that night That thrilled our hearts with fear, An undefinable, mysterious light, Which told us Heaven was near. He had a deeper lustre in his eyes, His smile had seemed more bright, Till, looking in his face, all Paradise Seemed opened to our sight.

Soon chimed the clock. And scarcely had it ceased, Than tolled the chapel bell, As though for some long-suffering soul released, Its slow funereal knell, And on its ebon wings the rising gale Swept landward from the sea, And mingled with the chapel bell's long wail Its own sad symphony.

We found him lying lifeless, as he said, Before the altar, prone, Nor laid our sinful hands upon the dead, But left him there alone, And launched our frail canoe upon the tide, Not marvelling to behold Before our prow the billows fall aside, Like the Red Sea of old.

On every hand the screaming waters flung Their great, white arms on high, And over all the thundering storm-clouds hung And battled in the sky. Yet fearless we sailed on, until when day Broke, panting, through the night, The fertile Isle aux Coudres before us lay, Its beach with breakers white.