Verses and Rhymes By the Way

by Norah

Not doubting aught of what he heard
He sat, but neither spoke nor stirred.
His heart gave one great throb of pain,
And stopped—then bounded on again.
His bronze face took an ashen hue,
As his great woe came blanching through,
And stormy thoughts with stinging pain
Swept with wild anguish through his brain;
But not a word he spoke.
They only saw his lips grow pale,
But no word questioned of the tale.
You might have thought the captain bold,
Had almost wished his tale untold;
But careless he of working harm
When coveting that brave right arm.
At last the silence broke:
"He who brought news that I was dead,
Is it to him my wife is wed?
Was it? I know it must be so.
It must have been Antoine Vaiseau."
"Yes," said the Captain, "'tis the same,
Antoine Vaiseau's the very name."

So ere the morrow's morn had come,
Rajotte had turned his back from home,
And gone for ever more,
Gone off, alone with his despair,
While his true wife and baby fair,
Watched for him at the door.

The rough crew of the "Emerald Isle,"
Had one grim man without a smile,
So prompt to do, so wild to dare,
Reckless and nursing his despair.
The merry light had left his glance,
His foot refused to join the dance.
His heart refused to pray.
"Oh to forget!" he oft would cry,
Forget this ceaseless agony,
To fly from thought away."
Woe spun her white threads in his hair,
And bitter and unblessed despair
Ploughed furrows in his face;
Grief her dark shade on all things cast;
None dared to question of the past,
His sorrow seemed disgrace.

When rumour rose of Indian war;
Troops mustering for the west afar,
That wanted them a guide;
Rajotte said "I'm the man to go."
War's din he thought would drown his woe,
'Twas well the world was wide.
The Black Hawk war began—went on:
(Men dare not tell what men have done—
The white's relentless cruelty
O'ermastering Indian treachery;)
Rajotte, a stern determined man,
Sought death, forever in the van
On many a fierce-fought battle plain;
His life seemed charmed—he sought in vain.

Spring came and went—the years went past;
War ended, peace came round at last;
But war might go, and peace might come,
Rajotte thought not of turning home.
Till, failing strength, and fading eye,
He turned him homeward just to die.
Perhaps although he felt it not,
In his fierce wrestling with his lot,
There was a drawing influence
From the dear home so far away;
And faithful prayers had risen from thence,
To Him who hears us when we pray,
Who watched the lonely waiting heart
That nursed its love and faith apart;
And, pitying her well borne pain,
Ordained it should not be in vain.

PART III.

Now turn we to Plantagenet:
Through all these weary, waiting years,
How many hopes and fears have met'
How many prayers, how many tears!
When the time came that he should come
Back to his fair young wife and home,
Often and often would she say,
"He'll surely come to us to-day."
Pet Marie's best robe was put on
And the poor mother dressed with care—
Glad that she was both young and fair—
"To meet thy father, little one"
Oft standing on the very spot
Where she had parted from Rajotte
She stood a patient watcher long,
And listened eagerly to hear
The voyageurs' returning song
Come floating to her ear
But still he came not, years went by,
Yet she must pray, and hope, and wait,
His form would some day meet her eye,
His step sound at the river gate
Oh! it was hard to hear them say,
"He comes not, and he must be dead
Cease pining all your life away,
'Twere better far that you should wed
And Antoine keeps his first love still,
And Antoine is so well to do,
You may be happy if you will
His pleading eyes ask leave to woo"
'Twas a relief to steal away,
And tell her ebon rosary,
And to the Virgin Mother pray,
Thinking that she in Heaven above,
Remembered all of earthly love,
And human sympathy,
And having suffered human pain—
Known what it was to grieve in vain—
Might bend to listen to her prayer,
And make the absent one her care
In pleading with her Son

She waited while the years went on,
And would not think that hope was gone,
Ever his steps seemed sounding near,
His voice came floating to her ear,
And longing prayer, and yearning pain
Reached out to draw him back again;
And love beyond all estimate
Strengthened her heart to hope and wait
Pet Marie grew up tall and fair,
Her girlish love, her merry ways
Kept the poor mother from despair
Through many weary nights and days.

Spring and high water both had met
Once more at fair Plantagenet;
Once more the island trees were seen
Adorned with leaves of tender green,
Aux Lievres's roar was heard afar,
Where waters dashed on rocks to spray,
Roaring and tumbling in their play,
Kept up a boisterous holiday,
With tumult loud of mimic war.
The wild ducks of Lochaber's Bay
Were playing round on wanton wing,
Rippling the current with their breasts,
Feeling the gladness of the spring,
Pairing and building happy nests
All sounds of spring were in the air,
All sights of spring were fresh and fair
Sad Marie of Plantagenet,
With silver threads among her hair,
And by her side her blooming pet,
As she had once been, fresh and fair,
Stood on the bank that glorious day
Thinking of him so long away
Awhile they both in silence stood,
Then Marie said, "The Nor-west flood
Again another year has come.
You see those water-fowl at play
Come with the flood from far away.
What flood will bring your father home?
'Tis seventeen years ago to-day,
Since, parting here, he went away."
Just then young Marie, glancing round
"Mamma, I hear a paddle's sound,
Look there, those maple branches through,
Below us, there's a bark canoe,
'Tis stopping at our landing place
There's but one man with hair so grey,
And a worn weather-beaten face—
See, he is coming up this way
Mamma, I wonder who is he,
Stay here and I will go and see."

Rajotte who thought he did not care—
That he had conquered even despair,
Could bear to see as well as know
That Marie was the Dame Vaiseau,
Came to the parting spot, and there,
In the bright sunlight's happy beams,
Stood the fair image of his dreams
As young as on the parting day,
As bright as when he went away,
As beautiful as when he met
Her first in fair Plantagenet,
His Marie, living, breathing, warm,
Her glorious eyes, her midnight hair
Shading the beauty of her face,
The same lithe, rounded, perfect form,
The look of true and tender grace