PART I
Away up on the River aux Lievres,
That is foaming and surging always,
And from rock to rock leaping through rapids,
Which are curtained by showers of spray;
That is eddying, whirling and chasing
All the white swells that break on the shore;
And then dashing and thundering onward,
With the sound of a cataract's roar.
And up here is the Buckingham village,
Which is built on these waters of strife,
It was here that the minister Babin,
Stood and preached of the Gospel of Life,
Of the message of love and of mercy,
The glad tidings of freedom and peace,
Of help for the hopeless and helpless,
For all weary ones rest and relief.
Was his message all noise like the rapids?
Was it empty and light as the foam?
Ah me! what thought the desolate inmate
Of the still upper room of his home?
One too many, one sad and unwelcome,
That reclined in his invalid's chair,
With her pale, busy fingers still knitting
Yarn mingled with sorrow and care.
And the brother stood up in the pulpit,
Stood up there in the neat village church,
And he preached of the pool of Bethesda,
Where the poor lame man lay in the porch
Waiting for the invisible mercy,
That shall healing and blessedness bring,
For those soft waters never were troubled,
Until swept by the life angel's wing.
But was that cottage home a Bethesda?
Was the porch up the dark narrow stair?
Were the thoughts of the lonely sister
Brighter made by a fond brother's care?
Ah who knows!—for the chair now is empty,
And the impotent girl is away,
While the night and the darkness covered
Such a deed from the light of the day.
Did she struggle for her dear existence?
Did the wild night winds bear off her cry?
Ere the pitiless, swift surging waters,
Caught and smothered her agony;
And again when the black, whirling eddy,
Drew her down to its cold, rocky bed,
Who was it that stood so remorseless
On the strong ice arched over her head?
Men may join and strike hands to hide it,
And agree to say evil is good;
Mingled with the loud roar of the waters,
Rings the cry of our lost sister's blood.
Mirth and song, and untimely music,
May sound up to the starry skies;
Nought of earth can stifle the gnawing
Of that dread worm that never dies.