In holy calm of eventide
Which crowned the sunbright day, We sat upon a grassy knoll
That overlooked the bay.
All glorious the lingering light
From out the radiant west, As loath to leave a scene so fair,
Illumined ocean's crest.
Along the path, with quiet tread,
There came an aged form Whose sunburnt features told that he
Had weathered many a storm.
He'd held command in goodly craft
On nigh and far off seas; Had furled the sail on foreign strand,
And scoured 'fore every breeze.
Now, 'yond all lure of worldly wealth
Through commerce on the foam, He anchored where affection set,
Within his childhood's home.
Nor tide, nor wind, nor black storm-cloud
Could bar his passage more, As he waited sailing orders
For glad Beulah's shore.
We asked him, as he rested near,
If he the story knew Of that bleak, lonely cape which stretched
Upon our right hand view.
"I can relate," he said, "the tale
My grandsire told to me:— It happened in the year of grace
Seventeen sixty-three.
"That year the Isle of St. Jean
Was ceded, this you know, To Britain, in the treaty signed
By France, at Fontainebleau.
"French privateers, which robbed our coast,
Were harassed by our men; McKenzie, with a British sloop
Unaided, captured ten.