"Next morn three sturdy fishermen
Steered out across the wave; They heeded not the swelling surge,
Their hearts were firm and brave.
"But, Oh! what vision met their gaze!
Upon that silent shore The Captain of the stranded bark
Lay stiffening in his gore.
"Far from his loved in La Belle France,
Far from his native plain; Where longing eyes, and yearning hearts
Might long for him in vain.
"He died not as the soldier dies;
For country and for king; For him no martial banners wave,
No lyre his praise doth sing.
"Rough hands, but souls of sympathy,
Entombed him where he fell; While sounding ocean wailed his dirge,
And wavelets rang his knell.
"Now, until ocean yields her dead,
Till dries yon river's source, That cape, baptizèd with his blood,
Shall bear the name 'Le Force.'"
He paused. "What of the murderer?
And what to him befell?" "He fled, from that dread hour of guilt
No tongue his fate could tell.
"No legal technicality
Could paint his black as white, Or color with a golden tinge
The blackness of his night.
"Though richly-garbed, accomplished vice
May bide the Final Day; With brutal, prompt, unstudied crime
The law brooks no delay.
"His was no deed of villain art
Which slowly works its will, Which wiles its victim to his death,
And slays with callous skill.