L'Isle Ste. Croix

WITH tangled brushwood all o'ergrown,
And here and there a lofty pine,
Around whose form strange creepers twine,
And crags that mock the sea's wild moan ;

And little bays, where no ships come,
Though many a white sail passes by ;
And many a white cloud in the sky
Looks down and shames the sleeping foam.

Unconscious on the waves it lies,
While, mid the golden reeds and sedge
That southward line the water's edge,
The thrush sings her shrill melodies.

No human dwelling now is seen
Upon its rude unfertile slopes ;
Though many a summer traveller gropes
For ruins 'midst the tangled green ;

And seeks, upon the northern shore,
The graves of that adventurous band
That followed to this western land
Champlain, De Monts, and Poutrincourt.

There stood the ancient fort that sent
Fierce cannon echoes through the world ;
There waved the Bourbon flag that told
The mastery of a continent;

Where through the pines, with groan and moan,
The winter wind swept, as at eve
The arches of St Genevieve
Had echoed the great organ's tone ;

There Huguenots, and cassocked priests,
And noble born, and sons of toil,
Together worked the barren soil,
And shared each other's frugal feasts ;

And heard, across the sailless sea,
A strange, prophetic harvest tune ;
And saw, beneath the yellow moon,
The golden reapings that should be.

Till stealthy Winter, through the reeds,
Crept, crystal-footed, to the shore ;
And to the little hamlet bore
His hidden freight of deathly seeds.

Spring came at last, and o'er the waves
The welcome sail of Pontgrave ;
But half the number silent lay,
Death's pale first-fruits, in western graves.

Sing on, wild sea, your sad refrain
For all the gallant sons of France,
Whose songs and sufferings enhance
The romance of the western main.

Sing requiems to these tangled woods,
With ruined forts and hidden graves ;
Your mournful music history craves
For many of her noblest moods.