Lady La Tour languished a few days in the hands of her enemy, and then died of grief.
"To the winds give our banner!
Bear homeward again!"
Cried the Lord of Acadia, Cried Charles of Estienne; From the prow of his shallop He gazed, as the sun, From its bed in the ocean, Streamed up the St. John.
O'er the blue western waters That shallop had passed, Where the mists of Penobscot Clung damp on her mast.
St. Saviour had looked On the heretic sail, As the songs of the Huguenot Rose on the gale.
The pale, ghostly fathers Remembered her well, And had cursed her while passing, With taper and bell; But the men of Monhegan, Of Papists abhorred, 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.
Pemaquid, 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.
Oh, 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 thundered 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.
"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-blazoned banner Float over St. John."
"Let the dastard look to it!"
Cried fiery Estienne, "Were D'Aulnay 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 staggered 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 creekside Her fishers shall throng!
Pentagoet shall rue What his Papists have done, When his palisades echo The Puritan's gun!"
Oh, 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!
1841
THE CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON.
Ibn Batuta, the celebrated Mussulman traveller of the fourteenth century, speaks of a cypress-tree in Ceylon, universally held sacred by the natives, the leaves of which were said to fall only at certain intervals, and he who had the happiness to find and eat one of them was restored, at once, to youth and vigor. The traveller saw several venerable Jogees, or saints, sitting silent and motionless under the tree, patiently awaiting the falling of a leaf.
THEY sat in silent watchfulness The sacred cypress-tree about, And, from beneath old wrinkled brows, Their failing eyes looked out.
Gray Age and Sickness waiting there Through weary night and lingering day,-- Grim as the idols at their side, And motionless as they.
Unheeded in the boughs above The song of Ceylon's birds was sweet; Unseen of them the island flowers Bloomed brightly at their feet.
O'er them the tropic night-storm swept, The thunder crashed on rock and hill; The cloud-fire on their eyeballs blazed, Yet there they waited still!
What was the world without to them?
The Moslem's sunset-call, the dance Of Ceylon's maids, the passing gleam Of battle-flag and lance?
They waited for that falling leaf Of which the wandering Jogees sing: Which lends once more to wintry age The greenness of its spring.
Oh, if these poor and blinded ones In trustful patience wait to feel O'er torpid pulse and failing limb A youthful freshness steal;
Shall we, who sit beneath that Tree Whose healing leaves of life are shed, In answer to the breath of prayer, Upon the waiting head;
Not to restore our failing forms, And build the spirit's broken shrine, But on the fainting soul to shed A light and life divine--
Shall we grow weary in our watch, And murmur at the long delay?
Impatient of our Father's time And His appointed way?
Or shall the stir of outward things Allure and claim the Christian's eye, When on the heathen watcher's ear Their powerless murmurs die?
Alas! a deeper test of faith Than prison cell or martyr's stake, The self-abasing watchfulness Of silent prayer may make.
We gird us bravely to rebuke Our erring brother in the wrong,-- And in the ear of Pride and Power Our warning voice is strong.
Easier to smite with Peter's sword Than "watch one hour" in humbling prayer.