O! long may sunset's light be shed As now upon that beech's head— green memorial of the dead!

A

There shall his fitting requiem be,
In northern winds, that, cold and free,
Howl nightly in that funeral tree.

To their wild wail the waves which break Forever round that lonely lake

A solemn under-tone shall make!

And who shall deem the spot unblest,
Where Nature's younger children rest,
Lulled on their sorrowing mother's breast?

Deem ye that mother loveth less
These bronzed forms of the wilderness
She foldeth in her long caress?

As sweet o'er them her wild flowers blow,
As if with fairer hair and brow
The blue-eyed Saxon slept below.

What though the places of their rest
No priestly knee hath ever pressed-
No funeral rite nor prayer hath blessed?

What though the bigot's ban be there,
And thoughts of wailing and despair,
And cursing in the place of prayer!

Yet Heaven hath angels watching round
The Indian's lowliest forest-mound-
And they have made it holy ground.

There ceases man's frail judgment; all
His powerless bolts of cursing fall
Unheeded on that grassy pall.

O, peeled, and hunted, and reviled,
Sleep on, dark tenant of the wild !
Great Nature owns her simple child!

And Nature's God, to whom alone
The secret of the heart is known-
The hidden language traced thereon;

Who from its many cumberings
Of form and creed, and outward things,
To light the naked spirit brings;

Not with our partial eye shall scan-
Not with our pride and scorn shall ban
The spirit of our brother man!

ST. JOHN.

1647.

"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 look'd

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 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 walis
Which the flame had o'errun,
There floated no banner,
There thunder'd no gun

"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.