A BALLAD.
I.
That was a brave old epoch, Our age of chivalry, When the Briton met the Frenchman At the fight of La Prairie; And the manhood of New England, And the Netherlander true And Mohawks sworn, gave battle To the Bourbon"s lilied blue.
II.
That was a brave old governor Who gathered his array, And stood to meet, he knew not what On that alarming day.
Eight hundred, amid rumors vast That filled the wild wood"s gloom, With all New England"s flower of youth, Fierce for New France"s doom.
III.
And the brave old half five hundred!
Their"s should in truth be fame; Borne down the savage Richelieu, On what emprise they came!
Your hearts are great enough, O few: Only your numbers fail, New France asks more for conquerors All glorious though your tale.
IV.
It was a brave old battle That surged around the fort, When D"Hosta fell in charging, And "twas deadly strife and short; When in the very quarters They contested face and hand, And many a goodly fellow Crimsoned yon La Prairie sand.
V.
And those were brave old orders The colonel gave to meet That forest force with trees entrenched Opposing the retreat: "DeCalliere"s strength"s behind us And in front your Richelieu; We must go straightforth at them; There is nothing else to do."
VI.
And then the brave old story comes, Of Schuyler and Valrennes When "Fight," the British colonel called, Encouraging his men, "For the Protestant Religion And the honor of our King!"-- "Sir, I am here to answer you!"
Valrennes cried, forthstepping.
VII.
Were those not brave old races?-- Well, here they still abide; And yours is one or other, And the second"s at your side, So when you hear your brother say, "Some loyal deed I"ll do,"
Like old Valrennes, be ready with "I"m here to answer you!"
WINTER"S DAWN IN LOWER CANADA.
To each there lives some beauteous sight: mine is to me most fair, I carry fadeless one clear dawn in keen December air, O"er leagues of plain from night we fled upon a pulsing train; For breath of morn, outside I stood. Then up a carmine stain Flushed calm and rich the long, low east, deep reddening till the sun Eyed from its molten fires and shot strange arrows, one by one On certain fields, and on a wood of distant evergreen, And fairy opal blues and pinks on all the snows between: (Broad earth had never such a flower, as in my country grows, When at the rising winter sun, the plain is all a rose.) Then seemed all nymphs and G.o.ds awake--heaven brightened with their smiles, The land was theirs; like mirages, stood out Elysian isles.
Westward the forests smiled in strength and glory like the plain, Their bare boughs rose, an arrowy flight, and by them sped the train.
But dream-crown of that porcelain sea, those plains of sunrise snow, The green woods east, the grey woods west, and molten carmine glow-- A light flashed through the sappling wastes and alders nearer by, Where Phoebus worked the spell of spells that ever charmed an eye, His bright spears to the forest-flakes reached; that on their branches lay, And each shot back, as we sped by, a single peerless ray.
More bright than starry hosts appeared that vision in the wood And flashed and flew like fire-flies in a nightly solitude, A maze of silver stars, a dance of diamonds in the day:
Through many lives though fly my soul as on that pulsing train, That sparkling dawn shall oftentimes enkindle it again.