“Nay, not alone, poor Marguerite!” I heard a voice divinely sweet, And in a moment’s awful space That silent subterranean place Was filled with light;—I did not dream: In beauty and in love supreme, Before me shone our Lady’s face. (O would I could behold it now) The coronal upon her brow, With star-like jewels thickly set, The Sovereign presence certified. Pure as the snow that lingered yet On solemn heights, with sunrise dyed, Her raiment gleamed. “Weep not,” she said, And toward me stretched her sacred hands As if to raise my drooping head; “Be comforted! the triple bands Of grief and pain Which Death around thy heart has coiled Shall part in twain; If secret sin thy soul hath soiled, If thou thy lover loved too well, The Seraphs say in high debate, ‘Better excessive love than hate, Save hate of hell.’ If fiends infest this desert Isle Regard them not; the soul whose trust On Heaven leans, may calmly smile At Satan’s utmost stretch of guile And tread down evil things like dust. The working of the wicked curse Branded upon thyself and nurse Shall cease with dawn of hallowed days; She fitting sepulture hath found Under and yet not under ground; Here leave her kneeling by the child, Here, where the power thy God displays Shall keep their bodies undefiled, Shall change to marble, flesh and bone. Then come, and leave the dead alone; Come hence!—thy round of days complete, Thy babe and lover shalt thou meet In Paradise. Look up, arise! My hands will guide thy fainting feet.” She led me to the outer light, And ere a second breath I drew, Ere I could fix my dazzled view, She vanished from my misted sight.
Resigned, uplifted, forth I went, But, oh! ’tis hard to nurse content In silent walls; to ever meet With filling eyes the vacant seat; To tread from day to day alone The silent ways, familiar grown, Where dear companionship has shed A glory and a rapture fled; Where every hillock, tree and stone Are memories of a loved one, dead!
Again the flowering springtime came, The wedding-time of happy birds, But not, oh! not for me the same; To whom could I address fond words? The violet and maple leaf, Had they but known my wintry grief, They would not have appeared so soon. I could not bear to look upon The beauty of the kindling dawn, Nor sunset, nor the rising moon, Nor listen to the wooing notes That warbled from a thousand throats, From cool of morn till heat of noon. My soul was with the wind that sighed Among the tree-tops; all the wide Waste desolation of the sea Possessed me; I could not agree With aught of earth or firmament. Where could I go? which way I went His melancholy shade did glide Behind the rocks, among the trees, And whispered in the twilight breeze Endearments whispered long ago. In constancy of love and fear My sick heart bore his heavy bier, How lovingly the angels know.
I knew not of my lost love’s tomb, Whether amid the shrouding gloom Of some tenebrous yawning chasm, Or in the watery world’s abysm, He met those spectres of my dream; No trace, no sign, no faintest gleam Did all my questing ever show. ’Twas well, perchance, that this was so; But may I not believe that yet, Long after we again have met, I shall know all? shall hear him tell What on that dreadful night befell, And how when in the toils of death He called me with his latest breath And blessed me? It will magnify The joys of that dear home on high If memory keep our bygone woe, Our grievings of this world below.
A huntress of the woods I grew, Necessity my frailty taught To track the fleetest quarry through The forest, wet with morning dew, Unheedful of the bruises wrought On tender feet; the wounds received From thorns whose leafy garb deceived My glowing limbs. My loosened hair I freely gave to every wind, Content to feel it stream behind, Or drift across my bosom bare.
So passed the uneventful days, The sad monotony of weeks, Till August suns had ceased to blaze; Till o’er the forest’s hectic cheeks A languishing and slumbering haze, The mellow Indian Summer crept; It was as if chaste Dryads wept At sign of Winter’s coming tread, Till from their falling tears was spread Those exhalations o’er the woods Amid whose greenest solitudes Their festivals of joy they kept.
So came the Autumn’s ruddy prime, And all my hopes, which had no morrow, Like sea-weed cast upon the beach, Like drift-wood barely out of reach Of waves that were attuned to sorrow, Lay lifeless on the strand of time.
So ebbed my life till beamed the hour When burst in sudden bloom the flower Of merciful deliverance. That day I walked as in a trance, My dismal round, as was my wont, To many a joy forsaken haunt Where oft upon my lover’s breast My head had lain in blissful rest, Till coming to that sea-beat height Where erst, enrobed in golden light, His hands, aglow with love, conferred Upon my brow the spousal wreath, Whilst heaven and all things underneath His words of sweet adorement heard. There failed my limbs, and long I sate At one with thoughts grown desperate. Two winters had I known since first I stood upon that Isle accurst, The third a near, and how could I Its killing frosts and snows defy? Surely ’twere better now to die. So ran my thoughts, and fair in sight The breakers tossed their plumes of white, The same as on that fearful day When bravely through their blinding spray My menaced lover fought his way. I listened to their luring speech Till lost in lornest fantasy; Till toward me they did seem to reach White jewelled hands to join with mine. I rose and answered: “I am thine, Thou desolate and widowed Sea, That late hath come to pity me. My lost Eugene! ’neath yonder wave Oh should thy faithful Marguerite Thy lonely corse in darkness meet How calm, how blest will be my grave! Sweet babe, adieu! and thou, Nanette, With tearful eyes on Heaven set, Thy watch beside my Lua keep.” Forward I stepped, prepared to leap;— One loving thought, one hasty glance Sent o’er the deep to sunny France, When hove directly into view A sail, a ship! could it be true? Or but a phantom sent to mock My madness on that lonely rock? Agape I stood with staring eyes An instant, then my frantic cries Went o’er the deep, they heard, they saw, Those mariners, and from the maw Of Death my timely rescue made. My Country’s flag the good ship bore, And just as day began to fade We parted from that fatal shore, And long ere moonrise many a mile To northward loomed the Demon’s Isle. Soon, homeward bound, again I trod My native soil, and thanked my God For that on me he deigned to smile.
Here ends my tale. And now, I pray, If I have stumbled on the way, Have shown but little tuneful skill In this wild chant of good and ill, My faults, my frowardness forgive. Here, a sad vestal, let me live, And share with you the peaceful bliss That points a better world than this; Here shall I seek from Heaven to win Forgiveness for my days of sin; Here shall my soul in prayer ascend For him I loved; my godlike friend, My Husband! if that honored name Is due to one who naught of blame, No falsehood, no unmanly art Ere harbored in his open heart, Then truly can nor ban nor bar Deny it to the lost Lamar. And if at times his spirit flits, Even here within this holy place, With mournful eyes before my face, And by my couch in silence sits Till blooms the morn, I dare not pray The gentle shade to haste away.
[1] Note to p. 24.—The settlement of Roberval at Quebec was a disastrous failure. It is said that the King, in great need of Roberval, sent Cartier to bring him home. It is said, too, that, in after years, the Viceroy essayed to repossess himself of his transatlantic domain, and lost his life in the attempt. Thevet, on the other hand, with ample means of learning the truth, affirms that Roberval was slain at night, near the Church of the Innocents, in the heart of Paris.—Parkman, Pioneers of France.