SUNRISE ON THE TUSKET
I
STILL, in the light of morning gray,
That ushered in the summer day,
The fair Acadien hamlet lay
Its fringing hem of forest round,
Its verdured slopes with orchards crowned,
Lie steeped in silence most profound.
No zephyr's wing the leaf hath stirred,
No sound to break the calm is heard,
Save crickets' chirp or trill of bird.
The frequent fireflies' fitful gleam,
The star of morning's lucent beam,
Shine mirrored in the glassy stream,
In whose clear depths are pictured seen
The drooping boughs and foliage green
Of graceful trees that o'er it lean.
II
Glows in the kindling East a blush,
Morn's old and immemorial flush!
Afar, the distant Tusket's rush
Is heard, in muffled murmur deep,
As, past green isle and headland steep,
Its eddying waters seaward sweep.
Morn's steps advance, and lo, the West
Hath donned a new and gorgeous vest
Of purple and of amethyst.
Look East once more!—a sea of gold
Along the far horizon rolled—
The rising orb of day behold!
It gilds with flame St Michael's spire,
Whose panes, agleam with living fire,
Blaze like some sacrificial pyre.
It lights, as with celestial glow,
The slender crosslets ranged below,
Man's last, sad resting-place to show....
III
In yonder modest glebe-house near,
Unconscious of my presence here,
Sleeps one to friendship's heart most dear.
Unwakened by the orient beam,
Perchance in some ecstatic dream
He roams by Tiber's classic stream,
Or sees St Peter's mighty dome
Soar grandly o'er the pomp of Rome—
His own loved Church's pride and home.
Blest be his visions, wheresoe'er
His dream-enfranchised fancy veer—
The faithful priest, the friend sincere!