:}'^^v M^ -:iiK; t.";i' Mm f.lr^^ '■t* 1 1'* ** > j f - ^' • » • • » .* -. ■ I THE LAY -/'V^^' A POEM, IN FIVE CANTOS; BY A NATIVE OF NEW-BRUNSWICK, ** Hast thou been in the woods with the honey bee % Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free \ With the hare through the copses and dingles wild '? With the butterfly over the heath 1" Mrs. Hi:MAi?3. SAINT JOHN : PRINTED BY HENRY CHUBB, MARKET- SQUARE. 1833. ^t a<\\ .ft'' ^^■^ ''2-: PREFACE* The poetical composition comprised in the fol- lowing pagesj is the spontaneous production of a native of New-Brunswick. Most of the incidents related therein, are literally true, and are still fresh in the recollection of many nov/ residing in the Province. These, as well as the forest scenery, (so familiar to the eye of every American,) a descrip- tion of which the author has attempted to give, it is hoped, will prove agreeable to those who may be induced to devote a portion of their leisure hours to a perusal of the work. Our Provincial Press having repeatedly recom- mended a more frequent display of the energies cf the youngea* branches of society, in attempts simi- lar to the one now undertaken, and having promised to extend its aid, and render due encouragement to " Native Talent," is a circumstance which has greatly induced the writer of these lines to present IV PREFACE. them to the public eye, with a degree of confidence, inspired also by a recollection of the moral and in- tellectual community, for whose reading they were more particularly designed. Trusting, however, that should this first attempt fail in having the tendency to please, or to impart instruction, all classes will cordially unite in treating with a suitable degree of tenderness the offering of the author. II¥TROBUCTI@l¥« Blest scenes of early life, I love thee still ! How dear in mem'ry is each vernal scene, The combinations sweet, which crown'd Sprmgliiil^ Where oft, in happy childhood, I have been : The cress-lin'd brook — the closely shaded lane — The rural path that wound around rock D — , The rustic bower, that overlooked the plain — Press forward, on delighted memory. Rock D — ! our favorite seat, where oft we sung, And woke the echo in the neighb'ring wild, Or laugh'd so loudly, that the welkin rung, Or with some harmless sport our time beguiFd, We felt in duty bound, when evening came, To dance upon rock D — 's smooth surface round. Or made us merry, with some rural game, Accomp'ni'd by the flute's soft thrilling sound ; Scarce were we conscious, when night veil'd the So eagerly engag'd were we with play, [scene, Till the broad moon arose with face serene. And lit the drops that trembled on each spray j VI INTRODUCTION. Then flash'd conviction on each youthful heart. That 'twas unwise to trifle thus with health. The glitt'ring dew was signal to depart, And each die pastime left, as if by stealth ; And sweet, surpassing sweet, in mem'ry still. Are those delightful summer afternoons : A dreamy smoke mov'd lazily, at will, Or hung in air, in fanciful festoons, Or rested on the hills, in soft repose. And gave the mountain a cerulean hue. Blending its highest peak, at evening's close. With the warm, summei^'s sky, of heavenly blue. Far in the wild were heard the mellow notes Of distant songsters, when soft eve was nigh ; 'Twas sweet, to list the music of their throats, And sweet, to gaze on forest scenery. Dear in my mem'ry too, the playful scene, That grac'd Presoue Isle, — and gave it busy life; Once its clear'd fields were rob'd in lively green, Where peace, triumphant reign'd — nor known was strife. Presque Isle — no more, and out post, is survey'd, On thy high banks — thy scenes, alas ! are chang'd: Gone is thy garrison — thy smooth parade, Thy barracks gone, which 'long thy heights once rang'd, — INTRODUCTION. VU Gone is thy worthy commandant, who held, in undisturb'd command, thy station long ; 'Twas there, his daughter, lov'd Eliza, dwell'd, My earhest friend, to whom no vice belong. Gone, are the men once station'd on thy brow : No military cares their peace destroy'd. In my mind's eye, I see their gardens now, In which, their hours were pleasantly employ'd. Thy guard-house, too, is levelled with the earth, That once gave shelter to an aged crone. She, whom a century had not robb'd of mirth, She twirl'd her rock, and sang " of days'^ by gone. There Mart/ "lilted" oft, a lively strain. While, full of life, we tripp'd it round and round. The ancient dame would flourish her high cane, And laugh'd to see us skip, and gayly bound. Then, would we leave her, when our dance was o'er^ To ramble thro' the fields to Poplar Grove, Or saunter'd down thy road towards thy shore, Or up along thy brawling stream would rove. Sweet grove of poplars ! where the balmy breeze TrilFd softly thro' thy rustling foliage green ; The robin caroU'd loudest 'mong thy trees, And added sweetness to the rural scene ; My memory there delights to wander still, Calls up the .blissful hours I there have pass'd. Vlll INTRODUCTION. Perchance when seated on some rising hill, Where oft we chatted long, and loud, and fast, From whence, I, at a distance, oft have view'd. Mars' Hill, which rises on disputed ground^ Clad in the foliage of its native wood, That shades the deer, w^hich on its sides abound. Long previous to my birth, Presque Isle had been A place of some importance—where the young, Or veteran soldiers, were in numbers seen ; But they had gone — had left their deeds unsung — Yes, they were gone — save where a lonely grave Still mark'd the spot, — that grave a warrior rest ! There, 'mid the poplars, slept the veteran brave, While o'er his head, the robin built its nest. Now, crumbling into dust, and scarce perceiv'd, His monument of w^ood neglected lies, [griev'd. O'er which, perhaps, some faithful friend once And nam'd his virtues o'er, with tearful eyes ; Ah, little did he think 'twould be his lot, When first to thee, Presque Isle, he smiling came. How few the years when he would be forgot, There leave his friends, his honors, and his fame. There, too, the infant sleeps beneaER]\ESS, FOURTH CANTO» Peace with America was now proclaim'd. Her independence Wasliington had gain'd— The faithful Loyalists, of all bereft. In British transports fast her shores had left ; The old, the young, the gi-eater, and the less. Sought here a home, amid thy wilderness. Here too, the British troops, who long had fought With the Americans, were promptly brought — - Were here disbanded, officers and men. Here drew their land, on mountain, hill, and glen, IL To thee, New-Brunswick, many thousands came. Who knew not Julia's fate, nor e'en her name ; 94 THE LAY OF But other cares they had — for who is free — They had to build log houses, fall the tree, [house. Which lean'd, perchance, too near their humble Or that their lean, impoverished cow might brouse* Severe their toil, by poverty assail'd, Frosts then were frequent, and their harvests faiPd, Through all the Province then, was scarce a road ; The Loyalist beneath a weary load, Slowly pursu'd a narrow, winding way That led thro' forest, where the god of day Was just admitted thro' the matted leaves, And lit the path that wound among the trees. III. His march was oft impeded by a slough. Or by a creek, or where a drooping bough Hung o'er the shaded track, he sought to trace. And lash'd with painful stripes his care-worn face ; Swarms of musquitoes ready for attack, Whose torturing bite was equal to the rack, Buzz'd in his ears, and joyous seemed to sing, While choosing where, to fix the poisonous sting ; In vain his efforts to increase his pace. For gnats in millions fastened on his face, Each step "augmented the vexatious train, Till tortnr'd e'en to madness with the pain, THE WILDEBNESS. 95 He threw his burden down, and groan'd aloud, And curs'd with savage rage the hungry crowd — Perchance the modicum, he thus obtained Would ill supply the family he maintained ; And when this pittance faiPd, he with a sigh, Retrac'd his steps to seek a fresh supply, IV. And those accustom'd to a life of ease, Whose only study had been how to please The giddy world — now met a sad reverse. Ere grateful England could them reimburse, For losses they'd sustain'd by land and sea, And for their warm, devoted loyalty — The change was most severe, yet they essay'd By sweat of brow to earn their daily bread. V. The officers encounter'd ev'ry ill — No soldiers now subservient to their will^ With cap in hand, their trifling orders wait. And all their seeming wants anticipate. Such times were o'er with officers and men, Now scatter'd far and wide o'er hill and glen ; No martial strains they heard, nor bugle blast, To urge them on, or cheer their plain repast ; 96 THE LAY OF Nor full-ton'd band, with soft bewitching airs, That thrills the soul, and breathes away our cares — Subdues the sterner passions, soothes the mind — Music, enchanting art \ in thee we find, Our sweetest solace, His alone in this We e^er on earth experience ought of bliss. VI, The scene was chang'd, with those of whom I speak, A scantj^ pittance they had e'en to seek — No quick promotions in these wilds were known, Preferment here had ceas'd— 'twas toil alone The long, unbroken forest held to view ; ^Twas dreary, twas commencing life anon — A//^<^' Yet while Great-Britain, with maternal pride, Allowed them rations, and their wants supplied. They felt at ease, nor dream'd of coming woe, Nor of hard toil which they must undergo — But when their rations ceas'd, then came the cry Of sorrow and vexatious poverty, VII. Their half-pay scarce subdu'd all-conqu'ring want. Nor from their threshold bid dull care avaunt ; It was by labour they alone obtained A competence — 'twas seldom this they gain'd. THE WILDERNESS. 91 Some discontented grew, and left their land — See yonder field, where cherry bushes stand. Impervious to the eye, an infant wild — 'Twas there an half-pay officer once toil'd. VIII. Was that a proper place for one whose mind Was skill'd in arts, with sciences refin'd ? And used to all the luxuries of life, Could he there feel an emulative strife ? Were the dark waters of yon miry cove. Or yonder dank, entangled hemlock grove — Or the bold cliffs of yonder rugged isle. Objects which could from care his mind beguile ; Ignorant he was when he his land first drew. That such a waste would meet his anxious view ; '^ What devil was 't?'' that urged him on to draw That horrid place — a worse I never saw. IX, But he, by dire necessity compell'd, A cabin rear'd, in which he lonely dwelFd — Of architecture rare, and seldom seen, Was the rude building of this man I ween. But see ! the chimney of his fallen hut. Still holds its own, and keeps its balance yet : H ^8 THE LAY OF A monument, o'er which might Comus pray, Or shake his sides, with laughter thro' the day, The rude fireside of that queer-modell'd pile, His only solace was, when freed from toil. 'Twas wasting life, to drudge from morn till night, On soi], that ill his labour would requite — See, with grey rock 'tis nearly overspread ; He left it; do we wonder that he fled ? X. While those, to whom more lenient were the Fates, Still held their wild, yet promising estates — Where patient industry once more restor'd A plenteousness, to cheer their social board. Woodstock, thy rising fame, thy farms imply Thy great advancement in prosperity, Acquir'd alone by unremitting toil, Thy trees were fell'd, and cultur'd was thy soil By those of whom I have already said, Disdain'd nor toil, nor pain, to earn their bread ; And now, in good old age, their hopes are crown'd With every comfort from their fields around. Yet they delight to count past suiF'rings o'er. Each one has some droll anecdote in store. Some well-remember'd mortifying scene, And laughing, tells how poor he once has been. THE WILDERNESS. 99 XL Though great and manifold their hardships were. Yet had their soldiers still a greater share ; Oftimes starvation star'd them in the face. And step by step, pale want with them kept pace. Till were their children able to assist, Were these poor settlers more or less distress'd. But when their sons to hardy manhood grew, Their prospects brighten'd, and they no'^s) can view Their fields of grain, their pastures and green meads. Producing all the sturdy farmer needs. XII. While those unblest with children or a wife. Led, in its fullest sense, a hermit's life ; Their humble shed, perchance in lonely glen. Or on a hill ; but for a specimen, I will of one I oft have seen, relate His mode of life, who murmur'd not at fate — Unknowing of seclusion Donald seem'd. His soul was wrapp'd in selfishness, he deem'd That nought in life was worthy of a sigh. Save what annoy'd himself, exclusively. IW THE LAY OF XIIL ^Twas well that Donald never had a wife^ For oft with angry passions he was rife : For merest trifle, battle dire ensued. Whene'er he chose to feel in savage mood ; A change of faces, he but seldom knew, From social haunts of men, in scorn withdrew : His cow, his pig, his cat, his hut, his spring, All claim'd his care, all own'd his fostering. A wooden tray, in which he made his bread, Pillow'd, at night, its owner's Inrpi i yy head ; //^^^^t/?-^ Most laughable it was, to see him bake, Or rather singe, his tough, unleaven'd cake ; On errand sent, I oft have found his hut, And household cares devolved upon his cat — Her master gone, and puss, in sleek attire. Half elos'd her eyes, and purr'd before the Gxe. XIV. Though far from martial scenes he liv'd retired^ The soldier's uniform he still admired ; A scarlet waistcoat, worn with special care. Gave Donald a smart, niilitary air— Particularly on a Sabbath morn, Would Donald, with this vest himself adorn : THE WILDERNESS. 101 Though none should view his dress, except his cat. On went the waistcoat, and a black cravat. His jacket button'd back to add a grace, Well shav'd, too, was his ruddy, shining face. XV. Stern was his aspect, and his flashing eye Bespoke the inward man's severity — Suspicious of each look, or playful smile, His quivering lip evincing vengeful guile ; [peace, He watch'd each movement, nor would seem at Till ought in us like sprightliness v/ould cease — For deaf to common tones, the loudest call Alone subserved to make him hear at all; And thus he deemed himself the sport of those Who talked apart, and looked on them as foes. Yet speak him fair, and mention but the time When he was in the years of manhood's prime — An instantaneous change would then take place, A grateful smile would fast illume his face — And tales of blood and carnage, conflicts dire, The dying groans of those he'd seen expire — The steady aim, that he so oft made tell. Were chosen themes on which he joyed to dwell ; And looked for our applause, while we with pain Beheld the man who had so many slain. h2 102 ' THE LAY OF XVL Yet he a vague idea cherished still, That God will punish those who here do ill— And deemed it sinful ever to neglect. Or treat his holy day with disrespect. Yet such seclusion did this hermit seek^ He sometimes erred in reck'ning up the week. I well remember one bright morn in May, He came in spirits more than usual gay — And brighter glowed the scarlet of his vest. Which told that he was in his very best ; ^Twas on a Friday, and v/e asked him, why He had arrayed himself so tastefully Upon a day v/hen all were busy round. In clearing land or ploughing tillage ground ? *^ Ye ken 'tis Sunday, and I'll nae the morn *^ Be sowin' rye, or wheat, or planting corn," He; answered, " 'tis the Sabbath of the Lord, *^ And I'll nae work, though ill I can afford "To lose the day." — We then explained with care, In gentle words, and with the gravest air. His error — he confounded stood awhile, And gazed upon us with a vacant smile ; On no occasion did he e'er betray So deep a sense of going ought astray. THE WILDERNESS. lOS Strict in the habits of his early youth, He uttered nought but downright honest truth — He loved his native hills, and Scotland's name On his lone heart still held the dearest claim- Still o'er his mind maintained an influence strong, For Scotia's sons, with him, could ne'er do wrongs XVIL I see him now, methinks, his brow of care, Pacing before his hut, with martial air — Or on a hill hard by, w^here oft he stood, To guard his fields, that none should there intrude ; Yet when lie gave permission, one might bound O'er his rude fence, and through his meadow ground ; Was even welcomed then to gather free The juicy bramble or the strawberry, XVIII. How oft in childhood have I waded through His smiling mead, where orange lilies grew ; High o'er the grass they waved with modest grace, Their drooping heads with variegated face. 'Twas there the sweet boblinkin lingered long, To cheer his brooding partner with a song — Perched on some waving bush, he tuned his lay^ And carroUed sweetly through the livelong day ; 104 THE LAY OF And other songsters cheerily would sing High on the boughs that shaded Donald's spring. This rural spot is dear in mem'ry still — The mead, the spring, and gently rising hill : "When called to my remembrance, they retain Their beauty, and I seem a child again. Before the evening closed, would Donald roam Beside the wood, to call his Darry home. The gentle cow obeyed her keeper's call, Would leave the forest, herds of cattle all — To seek her master, with a plaintive low, Where he stood waiting on a sloping brow ; Methinks I hear e'en now, 'mid tv/ilight gloom, Old Donald's well-known call, " Come, Darry, come." XIX. On scenes of earlj^ life I long could dwell, And sighing, leave a theme I love so well ; To other days I turn, of earlier date, To pen the sequel of fair Julia's fate — Back to the period when the war was closed. And North America in peace reposed ; I must my steps retrace, and hither lead The blithesome Fred'rick, from New-York with speed. THE WILDERNESS. 105 XX. There, where the British subject, no more found A place of rest, nor owned a foot of ground — Was all confusion, save in Frederick's heart, Which throbb'd with joy, to him the word * Depart' Brought pleasure in its sound, for soon he heard The Province of New-Brunswick was preferred As refuge mete, for British troops, where those Harrassed by war, could peacefully repose. While to his corps this seemed a luckless doom, Hope whispered him his happier hours had come ; Of kindreds, kindly greetings, early love, The strength and truth of which he soon should prove. All these anticipations he enjoyed. While he for his departure was employed. XXL Himself and regiment, now embarked on board A stately transport, which was soon unmoored ; A gentle breeze fast filled the swelling sail. The crowded ship borne by the western gale — > Soon left New- York's proud city far behind, Few on that deck were to their fate resigned— For hearts were there who felt a sad regret, Whose star of fame now seem'd forever set ; 106 THE LAY OF The spirit-stirring warfare then was o'er, And they were going to a dreary shore — With scarce one gleam of hope to cheer the soul, They viewed the heaving billows onward roll, Which urged the transport on her trackless way, And bore her to the entrance of a bay. XXIL When Frederick saw the Island Grand Manan, A tlirilling rapture through his bosom ran. Those frowning cliffs, lashed by the combing wave, Where oft the sailor finds a watery grave — Now rose with milder aspect, to a mind Filled with fond hope, and faithful love combined. As nearer to the western shore they drew. He on the crowded deck now stood to view The Bay of Fundy, which then lead the way Where all his brightest, happiest prospects lay. He knew the comforts of his father's hall, Unknown to him was poverty's dread call; Not like his fellow-soldiers — houseless, poor, But in an easy fortune felt secure. XXIIL Aware of this, he viewed the gallant corps With eyes of pity, as they neared the shore ; THE WILDERNESS. lOT The transport anchored off' the cheerless wilds. Where now Samt John, our thriving city smiles. Their boats werelaunched, by hardy seamen manned. And soon the voyagers reached the promised land ; Beneath Fort Howe, a bank of lively green, Where clumps of willdfws grace the busy scene — Was w^here they first were landed, great and small, Men, women, baggage^ officers and all. XXIV. When Frederick disembarked, he felt at home. Accustomed from blithe boyhood, far to roam Through bogs and thickets, fearless as a deer, To him the trees around did not appear So dreary all, — for wilds he felt no dread, Not so those strangers, who in towns were bred : They shuddered at the sight that met the eye, A forest boundless as the azure sky. But nought around, that met their anxious gaze, Awaken'd memory of their early days : They on him look'd with pity and suiyrhe^ For he express'd his joy without disguise, And haird, as early friends, each shrub and tree, That in his boyhood he had joy'd to see ; The human heart, perchance they had not known, Else had thev learn'd, how faithless and how lone 108 THE LAY OF Is that dark soul, whate'er his mind hath plann'd, Who loves not, next to God, his Native Land ! XXV. A dismal swamp of spruce then thickly gre\Y Where now high, handsome dwellings cheer the A narrow miry path then lead around, [view ; Where now the Portland cottages abound — To that high ridge, w^iich scarce is mentioned now, On which in former days was seen Fort Howe; There too was seen, 'mong spruce and cedar trees. The soldiers' tents, and officers' marquees. Till w^ere arrangements made, and schemes were planned To build a town, or cultivate the land. XXVL I leave them now, to follow Frederick through The walk of life, his fate bade him pursue ; Impatience made each moment seem a day. Nor would he brook the semblance of delay. Eager to know the change three years had made. For often busy fancy had pourtrayed — What time, or chance, or his long absence wrought In Julia's mind, all else to him w^as nought. THE WILDERNESS. 109 XXVII. And yet a pang shot through his friendly heart, When he reflected, that he now must part With those whom he in friendship long had lived, And oft their act of kindness had received — And when the moment came, his hand he gave To each respected friend — the gay, the brave ; The rising tear that could not be suppressed, The grief that struggled in each manly breast — The kind embrace, and faultering accents proved With what sincerity he was beloved. XXVIIL At length was sighed the sorrowing word Jhrewell J Which pierced each feeling heart like funeral knell ' And when this serious parting scene was o'er. He sought each individual of his corps — The men, the women, e'en each sportive child That left the tents, to ramble through the wild — He called around him, ere he left the place. And bade adieu to each familiar face. XXIX. Then Portland's rocky portage hurried, o'er^ To seek a passage from the river shore--* 110 THE LAY OF With joy he hailed the waters of Saint John, Keeping their steady course, in silence on. Till rugged rocks impede their quiet course, They then betray, in language loud and hoarse— A furious rage, for interrupted peace, Incessant is their roar, nor do they cease Till ocean's flood, the noisy Falls oppose, And bids the angry waters find repose. XXX. The tide was up, when Frederick reached the shore Where stood the Indian House, now seen no more ; And there a well-known object met his view. An Indian sannup, in a bark canoe — His wild and artless music chaunting o'er. Perchance a hymn of praise, or savage lore — Or of some warlike chieftain's deeds he sang. Till Frederick's shout around the welkin rang. The Indian ceased — a bargain soon was made, And Frederick up the river was conveyed. XXXI. 'Twas ere the sun arose, at early dawn. Young ^Frederick hastened o'er a woody lawn — Where peeped a mansion from a grove of trees, Whose leaves were rustling with the morning breeze. THE WILDERNESS. Ill A curling smoke rose circling in the air^ The inmates busy, with their daily care — Unheeded his approach ; — the rural scene Was one of quiet life, an air serene Hung o'er the softened, mellow landscape bright, Where all was mild and peaceful to the sight* XXXIL 'Twas his paternal home that thus appeared, With joy his bosom throbb'd, and yet he feared Some melancholy tidings he might learn. To check the transports of his glad return ; Still was his ardent breast with hope elate, With palpitating heart he reached the gate. The house-dog heard his footsteps from the hall. And loudly barked, to warn the inmates all That some intruder at that early hour, Approached the house, and lingered at the door. XXXIIL And soon was heard his father's w ell-known voice " Cease, cease," he said, '' old Watch, why all this noise ?" Op'ning the door, he smiled, and cried ^^ walk in, " This faithful dog has raised a needless din — 112 THE LAY OF ^^ But heed him not — come in, you have no cause " To hesitate, young man, why do you pause ?" But Frederick's bosom swell'd — he paused awhile. Then asked his father, with a pleasant smile, ^* If all were well?" — his father turn'd, and gaz'd Upon his face, then said " now God be praised — ^^ Thou art my son, and have I lived to see " You home once more, from war's dread perils free ? '^ 'Tis strange indeed I should not know thy face, " My sight, alas, is failing me apace" — " I knew your voice at once,*' — your mother call. She heard the shout, and hastened to the hall. XXXIV. Quicker than thought he in her arms was pressed. She wept for joy, and clasped him to her breast — ^' My son," she cried, " are you again returned ? " How has your mother's anxious bosom yearned " To see this day, to hear your much-loved voice I " To hold thee thus, how does my heart rejoice ! *^' O speak again, and let your parents hear *' Those well-known accents now so doubly dear. XXXV. " Mother," he cried, " our mutual joy is great, " 'Twas joy that made me linger at the gate— THE WILDERNESS. 113 " And yet with this was mixed a secret dread, " My dreams of home are dreary, wild, and sad — " Julia's neglect in writing pained my heart, ^' Caprice it seemed, or was it girlish art " To try my constancy ? — but why those tears ? " Be brief, dear mother, and relieve my fears." " Be firm," she answered, " while I now relate ^' The sad catastrophe — dear Julia's fate. " From you I have withheld, from motives kind, '• I knew despair would seize your ardent mind — i^ Unfitting you, for arduous duty there, ^' Far from your home, and my maternal care." XXXVL " Forgive me Frederick, you too soon will learn " Your disappointment, Julia to that bourne " From whence no traveller doth e'er return, " Long since has gone, yet what her fate has been ^'Is still unknown — no eye hath ever seen " The smallest vescige, to elicit where '' She breathed her last — no doubt in wild despair. " The forest inch by inch was searched, — the horn '' Was echoed through the woods, from night till morn : " Yet all in vain : — three tedious years had passed, ^'^ And still her wand'rings have not yet been traced. i2 114 THE LAY OF " A strange, mysterious fate, hath Juha's been, " And God alone, can now withdraw the screen ^^ That hangs between us and the hapless nfiaid : *^ The morn you left, she thro' the forest strayed ^' To weep unseen ; at least, so we surmise, " And yet perchance it hath been otherwise. XXXVIL " Oh God," he cried, " is then my Julia dead? " Why do I live, when all my joys are fled ?'* *^ A gleam of hope still lingers at my heart, " To you alone, my son, I this impart — ^' That Julia still survives, your mind misgives, " I see you too, have hope that Julia lives." ^' No, dearest mother," Frederick cried, '^ I see " Your kind endeavours to enhven me ; "Your hopes are groundless, Julia is no more, " And all my promised bliss, alas, is o'er." Wildly he gazed, and smote his manly brow. With agony intense, his reason now Seemed reeling from its throne, till tears relieved His bursting heart, by faithless hope deceived. THE WILDERNESS. 115 The frowns of fate I've sung, — permit me now To sincf her smiles, e'er blended with deceit — Inconstant ever on her changeful brow. Still are they witching, still surpassing sweet. Her frowns appal the heart, though oft we find That calm reflection follows in their train : Thus are they cruel only to be kind, And teach us wisdom while they give us pain. But when Injustice lifts her hated form — Calls forth Hypocrisy, or tempts with gold — Then Truth unveils, makes bare her beauteous arm ^ And drives the fiendish monster from her hold. That black injustice finds no footing here, In thee, New-Brunswick, gladly would I sing — But let me whisper softly in your ear — She's here in very deed — I've felt her sting. But proud Integrity, unshaken, rose Superior to her vile opponent's aim — Firm to her purpose, nought could discompose Her strength of mind, or sully her fair fame. 116^ THE LAY OF She smiled in scorn, while she with high disdain Withdrew the sting, and scanned it through and through — And found 'twas made of meanness^ love of gaiuj The lack of sense, and want of feeling too. Hence, vile injustice, hence ! nor dare to shew Thy hideous face; — think you that I forget ? No ! w^hile I live, thou base, thou fellest foe, Will I remember thee, with deepest hate. And all the fiends, that rallied round thy den, Fll bear in mind, the greater and the small — While mem'ry holds a seat in my poor brain. Will I despise, will I detest ye all ? But thanks to God, within the present year. Thy sons, New-Brunsw^ick, have enlightened grown — Oppression they now see, with vision clear, And through the Press they dare to make it known. Thine age of darkness they have struggled through, Oh may the Giver of all good, impress THE WILDERNESS. IIT A sense of virtue on their mind anew, And grant them prudence, wisdom, and success. To Frederick I must now devote an hour. And strive to soften or remove the pain Which nearly hath deprived him of the power Of reason, sole director of the brain. THE LAY OF THE WILDERNESS. FIFTH CANTO. THE liAY OF THE 1¥II.DER]VESS. FIFTH CANTO. The day passed off, but ere the evening closed, His mind became more tranquil, more composed ; And he walked forth at twilight's serious hour To seek his Julia's parents and her bower — Where oft in converse sweet, the time had flown, With her he fondly thought to call his own ; And still in fancy, he beheld her there. Braiding a wreath, to deck her auburn hair. 11. The morn he left, she playfully essayed To hide her grief, a crown of violets made — Then on his brow she placed the garland fair, While oft she turned to wipe the falling tear — ■■ K 122 ' THE LAY OF " By proxy, I thus crown your youthful head, " You go to earn this wreath/' she smiling said — " Yet fame will fade, as will those violets blue, ^^ And pass away, e'en like the morning dew." III. Prophetic words, — my fame — distracted thought, Death to my dearest hopes alone hath brought ; Stung with regret, he slowly reached the hill, And viewed the cottage, wuth a painful thrill — That once contained his Julia — there it stood Sweetly embowered, beside a sheltering wood. IV. And there the garden, there the rustic bower Where she so oft had twined the fairest flower ; The shaded walk, that led to rural seats, And formed in summer, pleasing cool retreats — Were now with envious w^eeds and grass grown o'er, And told the tale, that Julia was no more ; There all w^as silent, save the rustling leaf, The bower and garden bore the marks of grief. Then turning quickly from the mournful spot. Where all seemed desolated and forgot — THE WILDERNESS. 123 A shout of fury from the cottage came, He indistinctly heard his Julia's name ; With hurried strides he gained the cottage door. Where he full many an eve had been before — And found the household, had assembled all Around an Indian, in the cottage hall— Who had, it seemed, exchanged a book for bread. And by this act, had happily betrayed The art and treachery of his savage race, A sullen gloom spread o'er his tawny face — When he now found the volume was well known. With hellish rage, he swore it was his own; That he had found it on the Tobique shore. That he had owned it twenty years or more. VI. His words were vain — *my child, my child survives,' Resounded through the hall, " My Julia lives," 'Twas Julia's mothei* — she the book had caught, Had scanned its pages, with glad tidings fraught ; With weeping eyes and agitated frame. She found of recent date, her daughter's name : Each margin there contained her daily griefi In tears alone, had Julia sought relief — There filial love breathed forth on ev'ry page, And then woukUFrederick her sad mind engage ; 134 THE LAY OF His name was writ with nice peculiar care. And mutual love was often mentioned there* VII. That Julia lived, no further doubt remained. Yet where she lived, was still to be explained-— The minutes in her book had this revealed, That she in some lone forest was conceal' d — Where no voice was heard in the dark recess, Save the moaning voice of the wilderness. The wrathful savage in the hall could tell, He knew the darkest, wildest places well — Each tree throughout the forest, far and nigh, Had grown familiar to his searching eye. VIIL With kindest words, the Indian was implored To tell, why Jnlia had not been restored ? To seize the book, he forward fiercely sprang. With hideous, savage whoop, the cottage rang — His rage increased, for no one there he feared, But fortunately Frederick then appeared : A scream of joy announced his welcome there. Kind Heaven in mercy surely sent you here — To save us from this savage wretch, they cried, Though we to soothe him, every art have tried. THE WILDERNESS. 125 IX. Know you the trial we have undergone. Asked Julia's parents in a sorrowing tone : Within this hour, we deemed our much-loved child Had met a fearful death in yonder wild ; 'Twere useless now, to paint our hapless state, The world around seemed drear and desolate — Till this man came, and offered to exchano^e A book for bread — the barter was so strange. That we were curious to behold the book. Which soon he from his greasy mantle took — When lo, to our amazement, 'twas the gift Yourself presented Julia, ere you left. X. A dawn of hope this incident revived That haply our lamented child still lived — Nor deem it mere allusion of the brain, If we now hope to see our child again. Peruse this writing, then will you believe That hope oft faithless, does not now deceive; A difficulty yet attends her fate, Would but this Indian be less obstinate ; Entreat him, dearest friend, to point the road That leads to Julia's comfortless abode. k2 126 THE LAY OF XL This wretch ? asked Frederick, him I'll not intreat ; And laid the sannup prostrate at his feet ; Confess, cri^d he, or your accursed soul Shall hence go howling — speak— confess the whole. Or, by that power which rules, your loathsome race I'll scourge from off the earth: say, in what place. Is kept concealed, by you r unhallowed tribe. The suffering Julia, quick the place describe ; Provoke me not, or ere the hour hath passed, Here by my hand you will have breathed your last. The sannup now of Frederick felt afraid ; He feared the solemn promise he had made — And loudly then exclaimed in wild surprize. Oh spare my life, and I without disguise — Will tell you all that book has left untold, I ign'rant was, that books could thus unfold The secret thoughts, and secret deeds relate Of Indian men, whom you abominate. XIL That book speaks truth ; the maiden's deep distress I oft have witnessed in the wilderness ; Alone she wanders by the water's side, Or through the woods she pensively will glide. THE WILDERNESS. J2T Her sole companion, was her little book, Witli which, she oft has sat beside a brook That winds along, and murmurs through a glade Where balm of Gilead yields a pleasing shade. XIII. In early spring, around that brook is seen Wild adder-tongue, with leaf of mottled green- Where too are seen, long ere the drifts of snow Have melted ojfF the mountain's rugged brow — The scented violets white, which sweetly peep, While other flow'rs in their embryo sleep. When winds were hushed, or when a balmy breeze Just moved the foliage of the forest trees : To that sweet spot, the maid will oft repair, And well I know what sends her weeping there. XIV. Old Otwin's son, a handsome well-formM youth, Though proud withal, for I now speak the truth- Has fixed his heart, as all his actions prove. On that fair maid, and seeks a mutual love ; But she avoids him, and prefers the wilds, To his superior skill and haughty smiles. We laugh in secret at his foolish pride, Though none dare, in his presence, e'er deride 128 THE LAY OF His matchless art, his quick unerring aim, By which he gains with ease the choicest game; Conscious of this, he looks for our applause. Yet scorns to wed the loveliest of our squaws. He thinks forsooth, to spend an easy life, And have that English maiden for his wife. XV. With horror, Julia's mother heard this strain, Her daughter now seemed lost to her again — Madness was in the thought, she gasped for breath. To have her thus beset 'twere worse than death. " Perchance ere this, my Julia has been driven " To wed that savage; oh, forbid it. Heaven ! '^ Rather than this, her deatii I e'en would crave, " And end my life, in weeping o'er her grave." XVI. Thus did she rave, at length the sannup smil'd. As if in scorn, then said in accents mild — " If you from dire suspense would wish rehef. Then rise superior to such childish grief; A woman's tears avail but little, when Th' occasion needs the fortitude of men And strength of mind — most women are too weak To form opinion, or in council speak; THE WILDERNESS. 129 'Twere better for your daughter's future fate If you would give o'er weeping at this rate — And save, ere she by wedlock is ensnared, The day is fixed, the wedding-dress prepared ; The game is caught in order for the feast, And they now wait the sanction of the Priest : Certain I am, that ere a week has pass'd Your child will be to you, forever lost." XVIL The Indian then to Frederick turn'd and said " I dare not in this business lend my aid, '^ Further than to describe the forest, where " Yourself can find the object of your care. " So if the blue eyed maiden you would seek, " Then trace this river, till you reach Tobique, " A turgid stream, that speeds its limpid wave, " In which the moose in summer loves to lave ; '' The shoreless narrows of that stream pass through, " And onward speed your buoyant bark canoe. " A grove of dark red pine will be your guide, " To find the Wabskahagen's coloured tide ; " The pines around it are the deepest green, " The earth the deepest red, that e'er was seen. 130 THE LAY or XVIII. ^^ There when the autumn's sun hut dimly shines, " We build our wigwams, 'mid the lofty pines^ " Which shield us from the fury of the storm, " And lend a shade in summer when 'tis warm — " A long frequented, favorite resort, ^' 'Tis there we meet, to share our winter's sport : " When spring returns, a different route each takes, " Some hunt the woods, while others hunt the lakes; ^^ Yet Otwin there, throughout the year abides, " While his athletic son for him provides. " 'Tis there the maiden dwells — then haste away, ^^ I can no more, nor must I longer stay." XIX. No stimulative pow'r did Frederick need, He left the cottage with an eagle's speed — Called on his youthful friends, and asked their aid, A party formed, and preparations made — Canoes were mustered, none inactive stood. For soon the news spread thro' the neighborhood ; Then neighbours gathered round the cottage door, To hear the tale repeated o'er and o'er. Congratulations flowed from ev'ry tongue. The news was hailed with joy by old and young. THE WILDERNESS. i 131 « For Julia was belov'd by all who knew How cheerful was her heart, how kind, how true, The sweetness of her smiles won every heart. So unsuspecting, so devoid of art, Ere they had found, or e'en had time to find, How truly they portray'd her guiltless mind. XX. Frederick, in haste, now to his parents ran, To give them information of his plan : Then on the alert, away again he hied To join his party, at the water side. Each youth had joined the enterprize with glee, They launched their barks, and pushed on cheerily ; Both night and day they, journey'd hard and fast. Nor stopped, except to take a slight repast — Till wearied out, at length they all agreed To rest one night, from their severe fatigue, XXL No human habitation near them rose. Where they might find refreshment or repose — The pointed rocks, round which the whirlpools swept, The rush of water, as o'er rocks it leaped — 132 THE LAY OF The rugged bankj where trees projected o'er, With limbs gigantic, on the shelving shore — No promise gave of shelter or of rest, — To find some smoother beach they onv^ard pressed. XXIL Just then they saw, and welcomed with delight, Far in a woody cove, a blazing light ; To it they drew, to gain an evening fire, 'Twere all, in present haste, they could desire; There near the river's brink, on humid sand Which flits not with the breeze — a shining strand — Where the light pencirs touch, left impress deep, AVhere the device, for days or weeks would keep. There sat Jerome^ whose grizzled locks were bare, The wild wind sporting through his matted hair — There was the lonely v»^retch, with pencil rude, Drawing a sketch, in this his solitude — Upon the moistened sand, of creeks and swamps. And beaver ponds — far from the Indians' camp. XXIL An isolated being was Jerome, Shunned by his race, — nor camp had he, nor home ; A mark'd man long had been, and kept aloof From bis red brethren's taunting, keen reproof— THE WILDERNESS. 133 A lonely wanderer, from his tribe expelled. For he, in youth, a beauteous wife had killed ; His evening fire was formed in circle round. Within to sit was wisdom most profound — To parry oiF with fire his murdered wife, 'Twas by this plan he thought he saved his life. Near by the magic ring he sat alone, Like maniac, on a visionary throne — Issuing his mandates, blending sense with whim, Wise without reason, thus it was with him. XXIV. Intent upon his sketch, he heard no sound. Though Frederick and his party walked around — And watched the aged sannup, while he drew The plan of hunting grounds he had in view ; With uncouth gestures, he then pointed round. Mimicked the moose chace o'er the hunting ground. In full pursuit, his speed increasing still. Through brake, through trees, and o'er the high- est hill — Fast gaining on the chase, he sped away. Until he brought the stately moose to bay But just when in the act of taking sight, They loudly called to him, and with the fright L 134 THE LAY OF He sprang his length, and gave a fearful yell, And forward rushed, to gain the magic spell ; Then leaping in the circle, trembling stood. And wildly gazed upon the darksome wood. XXV. The trav'lers then assembled round the ring. Where stood Jerome, appall'd and trembling — But when he saw that they were living men, Jerome, like Richard^ was himself again ; They asked him, why the ring of fire w^as formed. And w^hy their voices had him so alarmed ? He answered briefly, while the fitful blaze Played on his pallid cheek, in flick' ring rays : I am a Murderer ! ! ! and my victim's shade Disturbs me nightly, with a serenade; But for this fire, the spectre of my wife Would in the hours of darkness take ray life. Last night it came, and I, in wild dismay, My fusee fired, which drove the ghost away ; Her frightful shrieks still ringing in my ears. Then do you wonder at my present fears. XXYL For my protection. I bad duiy made The blazing circle- vhich is here displayed ; THE WILDERNESS. 13 J I then delineated with much skill, My customary draught of dale and hill ; When I design to shoot the bright eyed moose, While they are browsing in their loved recluse : Wrapp'd in the contemplation of the chase, I had forgot my usual resting place — When I your voices heard, I shrunk aghast, Fully assured the phantom had at last Out-gen'rall'd me, in watching for the night, Had pounced on me, while outside of the light : Fire is at night my safeguard from the ghost. And ne'er again will I desert my post. XXVII. In ev'ry gale that sweeps the mountain's brow, Or steals more softly o'er the vales below — Or murmurs up the glen, or dark ravine, I hear the wail of Mary Maddeline ; Oft times her shade flits round my ev'ning blaze. Then vanishes in air, and mocks my gaze : Yet ere she leaves, I hear her piercing cries. Which banish peace; and sleep forsakes mine eyes — My bosom throbs, cold sweat bedews my frame : Such are the nights I spend, each night the same ; I watch till day is dawning in the east, 'Tis then I sleep, yet cries disturb my rest — 136 THE LAY OF My slumbers are unquiet, in my dreams My Maddeline still haunts me with her screams. XXVIII, Methought one morn, this Autumn, while I slept. She sat beside me, in the dark, and wept ; The wound I gave her seemed to bleed afresh, I saw the blood from her pale temples gush — She feebly pointed to the wound, and said See where you sunk the hatchet in my head ; For this dark deed, a fiat has been given, To blot your name from the blest book of Heaven — Your soul shall suffer in eternal gloom. And think not. Murderer ! to escape your doom. In horror I awoke, the sentence seem'd So real, that I scarce believed I dreamed. XXIX. Jerome while speaking, slowly turned his eye, And fixed his gaze upon the star-lit sky — But started, when the bushes round him wav'd. In the damp air of night, and then he crav'd Frederick and his companions, to pass through The ^^Jlery ordeal^^ where he stood in view : Just then an ev'ning breeze began to rise. Which hurled the smoke and cinders in his eyes— THE WILDERNESS. 137 Sometimes so dense, as to obscure the sight. Then cleared again, and brought his form to light; Yet there he staid, tho' flames around him whirled, Nor would he venture from them for the world. Oh, superstition, born of guilt — the ban Of ign'rance dark, and conscience-stricken man ; Tenaciously adhered to — judgment fails Whene'er benighted bigotry prevails. XXX. Frederick to sleep, within the ring declined, 'Twas not congenial to his guiltless mind ; Wrapped in his cloak, he with his friends soon found A place of rest, and sank in sleep profound. Jerome, as usual, kept his watch through night, Nor dared to close his eyes till dawning light: While they refreshed with sleep, ere it was day, Had left Jerome, to conscience still a prey. XXXI. Through rapids, where the river rushed v/ith force, They steadily pursued their wonted course : Though oft the current staid their light canoes, And surged with frightful power against their bows ; There 'mid the rush of waters would they cheer, Though they each other's voices scarce could hear : l2 13B THE LAY OF To keep their balance, firmly braced their feetj And by mere strength of arm moved on their fleet — Till they had passed each brawling dangerous place^ And o'er smooth water glided on apace. Thus on they journeyed, till they reached Tobique, Where stood the Indian village near the creek. XXXII. Then up the Tobique turned, without delay, And thro' the shoreless narrows forced their way ; Tremendous cliffs rose high on either side, And cast their shadows o'er the sweeping tide. Fast ran the stream with which they had to cope^^ Yet they progressed, led on by cheering hope — And when the Wabskahagen stream they gained. Where solitude in solemn silence reigned — In stern repose and of the deepest green, The pines unruffled by a breeze were seen ; No warbler of the wild was heard along The bank, where laved therapids smooth and strong : A fragrance filled the air, both sweet and mild, Well known to those who range the scented wild. Here nature seemed at rest — where Autumn's dye Had tinged the leaves, as if to please the eye ; The moose- wood red, and gold and crimsoned o'er. Were the ground-maple bushes long the shore — THE WILDERNESS. 139 These, where the rapids, were by eddies staid, Hung o'er the bank in gayest tints arrayed ; As if ambitious to behold their dress. Which the still coves reflected more or less : So calm, so soothing to the mind the scene, That all confess its charms, who here have been. The youthful party, felt its influence sweet Cling round their hearts, which high with friend- ship beat — No sounds were heard, save when the rippling tide Repelled the bark, each youth there well could guide: With graceful skill, they steer'd the light canoe, That seemed to cut the dancing bubbles through — - Awhile the voyagers paused, and list to hear If aught that breathed of life would meet the ear : But save the noise of rapids, where they rushed In this remote dark erove, all sounds were hushed. XXXIIL Butwhen they came, Vy^here Indian wigwams ranged Along the water side, the scene was changed : Light-hearted mirth around the welkin rang, To seize the ball, the young pappooses sprang — While some with bows and arrows stood in groups, To laud the ballot players with wild whoops. 140 THE LAY OF Till Frederick and his friends approached the shore, They then their noisy shouts and play gave o'er — To watch the motions of the stranger gang. Nor deemed poHtic, the loud harangue. As Frederick landed with his brave escort. The children stared, or ran to make report — While some more brave, thro' age or Indian art, Shewed unconcern, and merely stood apart. XXXIV. When Frederick saw the camps beside the creek, The color heightened in his glowing cheek — He leaped on shore, and cried, my friends be brave, Kastetothecamp where those proud banners wave— Fiush on, and take the village by surprise, Give the wild savages no time to rise : Swift as an arrow fi^om the bow, he sped, His faithful friends fast foUovv^ed where he led : They dashed aside the blanket door, and saw A sight that for a moment gave them awe — A crowd immense, in scarlet cloth arrayed. Of stately sannups, of the highest grade — Around a Priest, in sacerdotal vest. Who with much pomp, the eager crowd repressed : With rev'rence they drew back; the Priest then cried, '^ Lead forward, Francis, your intended brieve !" THE WILDERNESS. 141 XXXV. A tall, majestic youth, then proudly moved, That he was Francis, his rich costume proved ; His noble bearing, as he passed along. Seemed to demand fhe homage of the throng — And as he passed, the crowd made way, yet he Acknowledged not, nor marked their courtesy. Soon he returned, and trembling by his side. Came forth the pale, and scarcely breathing bride : Her dress was elegant, with studied care, Had been arranged in tasteful order there The beads, the ribbons, and the brooches bright^ The silver bracelets, dazzling to the sight — The beaded cap, the band of wampum grey, Wrought by old Agnes, for the bridal day. 'Twas Julia^ whose emotions, were too deep For idle tears, nor power had she to weep, XXXVI. The Priest observed her sad, yet graceful mien^ And asked her nam.e — this question changed the scene : Oh, Heaven ! when Frederick heard the brief de- He had no longer patience at command ; [mand,. His soul grew haughty, and his flashing eye Expressed disdain^ and stern authority : 142 THE LAY OF He forward sprang, aud cried, " ask me her name, ^' To save my love, or die, I hither came — " She's mine, nor shall the powers of earth or hell "Deprive me of my Julia, mark me well: " Betrothed we long have been, our hearts are one, " She's mine bv solemn vows, and mine alone." When Julia heard his voice, her senses fled — She spoke not, moved not, yet her drooping head Now leaned upon the breast of him she loved. That he spoke truth, her recognition proved. XXXVIL No human heart could greater torture feel. Than did the heart of Francis, nor conceal Its pangs, with such composure as he feigned, To own his disappointment he disdained : Yet at this crisis, his sensations were Love, jealousy, revenge, and keen despair — Transfixed he stood, his quiv'ring lip, his eye Alone expressed his mental agony; Apparently with greatest unconcern, He stood to hear the Priest, from Frederick learn How the lost girl had been secreted here. As if 'twas nought to him, how she came there ; If o'er his passions he had strong control. Still fell revenge was rankling in his soul ; THE WILDERNESS. 143 And from the Priest had Frederick stood apart, The knife of Francis would have pierced his heart. XXXVIII. The Priest then spoke, and turned a threat'ning eye On Francis, and each sannup that stood by — " How dare you hazard thus on me your fraud, " And think to cheat the Minister of God — " I feel my sacred character defiled, '' That I through savage art have been beguiled : ^' Hence, from my sight! vile wretches, from me, cc Or Til your tribe anath'matize at once." [hence ! Without demur, they one and all obeyed. To tempt him further, they were sore afraid, Juha reviv'd — a blush suifiis'd her cheek, As she on Frederick gaz'd, and heard him speak. One look gave Francis ere he left the place. One look of hopeless love, on Julia's face — Then v^ith a leap, he darted from their view, To hide the sorrow which had pierced him thro' — Far in the wilds, he rush'd from human eye, Where long he wept, and rav'd distractedly. XXXIX. Sweet peace once more returned to Julia's heart, Though she was still most anxious to depart ; 144 THE LAY OF Her joy seem'd boundless, now the hour had come When she those wilds would leave for home, * sweet home' — Extatic thought — her dearest Frederick too. Whose heart was brave as generous, kind as true, Had proved his faith, had her sad fate redeem'd, Had brought her early friends, whom she esteemed, To lead her home ; could aught augment her bhss ? Could Julia ask, or wish, for more than this ? XL. She now her grateful sentiments express'd, And own'd her obligations to the Priest ; She warmly thank'd him for his timely aid, And kind acknowledgments to Agnes made, Who, weeping, clung around her, and implor'd That she, tho' now to social life restor'd, Would still remember Agnes, nor forget The love of Francis, nor his deep regret : *^ Your book, sweet girl, somehow has been mislaid, " Or you should have it," Agnes sobbing said ; She knew not John Sabattis had conceal'd The wish'd-for book, nor that he had reveaFd, Thro' cowardice, the plan they had in view ; 'Twas well for John that Agnes did not know, THE WILDERNESS. 145 Else would his life have quickly paid the price. Both for the the theft, and giving his advice. XLL Julia, by Agnes, now was urged to wear The dress, on which she had bestowed such care, Upon her nuptial day. Then Frederick said— *^ Agnes, my Julia shall be thus arrayed— ^^ When that blest day shall come, if God allows, " When shall be sealed our solemn marriage vows ; " And let it be your future boast and pride, " That in your costume she became a bride — " And rest assured, that I will yet reward " Yourself and Otwin, for your kind regard : " My Julia's life you saved ; in doing this, ^* You've crowned my fondest hopes with happiness.'^ XLIL Julia for Otwin asked, — but learnt that he Feared to come forward, lest the Priest should see, And neither did old Otwin shew his face. Till well assured that he had left the place. To Agnes then, she bade a warm adieu. And lightly stepped into the bark canoe— The buoyant bark receded from the shore, And Julia's dread of Ijadians was no more. M 14G THE LAY OF Delighted with success, the party laughed, And told the tale of Jerome and his draught- How he described with gravity absurd, The capers of a ghost both seen and heard — That with an unbecoming pertness came. And waltz'd with graceless steps around the flame ; And how the wearied spectre came each night, To reconnoitre round his circling light : Tho' thus beseiged, he still maintained his state, And nought could make Jerome capitulate. XLIIL Julia once more alive to hum'rous glee, Join'd in their sport, and laugh'd most heartily ; Mirth to her heart a stranger long had been. But with returning joy came mirth again ; The sun had set, and dusky night had veiled The scene in darkness, while they yet detailed Jerome's sad narrative — they still did speed. And to surrounding darkness gave no heed — By night undaunted, they went gaily on. Swift o'er the limpid waters of Saint John ; Hard by Presque Isle, upon a bushy shore, Was seen Jerome, encircled as before : Amid the smoke he loomed, with aspect grave. Like a grey gull upon a rising wave ; THE WILDERNESS. 147 They haiPd him, but Jerome no answer made. His fire renew'd, then round the ring surveyed ; The glowing hght betrayed his fearful gaze. They passed him by, encircled by the blaze. XLIV. At home once more, in her fond parents' arms, Now view fair Julia, whose increasing charms Enhanced her parents' joy, and as they viewed Their beauteous child, with mental worth endowed — Their bosoms swelled with gratitude to God, Who had in mercy staid the chastening rod. And now before the altar, see her stand With modest grace, to give her willing hand To her loved Frederick, whose dark eye revealed His heart-felt bliss, and thus their vows were sealed. Her bridal dress gave ev'ry eye delight, So rich, so tasteful, such a novel sight : For Julia in the dress old Agnes made, By Frederick's soft persuasion was arrayed — True to the promise he had made the squaw. From which, with honor, he could not withdraw : . And ere a little month away had rolled^ Agnes was amply paid in weighty gold ; And oft she came and Otwin : — but their son, Who proudly called blest liberty his own — 148 THE LAY OF With haughtiness of soul, disdained to call. Or e'en to look towards the house at all — Where Frederick and his Julia dwelt in peace, For mutual love, with wealth, bids sorrow cease. XLV. Healthful and happy, they both live to see Their children's children, strolling sportively Thro* pastures green, where the dark forest stood. Where Julia once was lost amid the wood ; Though much of her activity is o'er. She still delights to ramble as before — Her children's offspring prattling by her side. And oft entreating her to be their guide Where she once wandered, there to point the place. While they with eagerness, essay to trace The route she took — the swamps and brook she cross'd That memorable morn, when she was lost ; What once herself had been, they now appear, Their questions and inquiries charm her ear : Curious to learn, they frequently will ask Such questions, which to answer proves a task; And ask them o'er and o'er, with serious eye. Till told, God wraps all such in mystery— THE WILDERNESS. 149 Then with a thoughtful look they turn away. And lose their wonder in some childish play^ XLVL But ever well disposed to list the tale Of Julia's walks o'er woody hill and dale, Now cleared away, and fields of Indian corn, With blade as fragrant as the blossomed thorn — Of stately growth, with shining stalks, and sweet, Standing in rows, straight, parallel, and neat- — The space, deep-shaded by the tasselled stalks, Affords the farmer cool, refreshing walks — The thrifty ears with silken tresses crowned, The husk of fibrous web close wrapped around — The cob, thick studded with full kernels bright, Nutritious, healthsome; beaming with delight, The eye surveys the corn, luxuriant, grand, Clothing in beauty, rich, alluvial land; 'Mong the tall corn, the pompions bright are seen, Of golden hue, or pale, or vivid green — Shining beneath their broad rough leaves and vines. Round which the tendril gracefully entwines — Their yellow, gaudy blossom, broadly blown. Holds through the season, till the frost comes on — Seen side by side, the full-grown pompions oft. These bell-shaped gilded cups of texture soft — m2 150 THE LAY OF Appear, with emulation, to outshine The riper charms of the far-spreading vine. XLVIL Where the thick grove of maple once was seen^^ Where Julia in blithe girlhood oft had been — Is now a meadow, ^here the lilies play, And sweet boblinkins carol through the day — And fields of wheat are seen along the vales. Low-bending to warm summer's ripening gales: Where she in early life for hours had played. Had gathered floial s^veets beneath the shade, Of tall, umbrageous trees, now seen no more, All felled, save drooping elms that fringe the shore^ Or where they've been preserved to shade the rills. That murmur thro' the beauteous iutervales ; There too, the butternut, is left to please The eye and taste, and w^anton in the breeze — The pride of forest growth — which all confess The choicest nut-tree of the w^ilderness : Beneath whose spreading branches, flocks and herd, LuU'd to repose, lie listless on the sward Of velvet softness, or at leisure rove. And breathe the gales that fan the ^laughing grove/ THE WILDERNESS. 151 XLVIIL The sylvan lake, where once the wild-fowl played. Which Julia, ere she fainting fell, surveyed: Now round its shore, white cottages abound, Neat gardens, orchards, and rich tillage ground ; A stream, which speeds its waters down a hill, Feeds the clear lake, and turns a busy mill. XLIX. Thus Time, which changes all things more or less, Hath changed the aspect of thy wilderness. The various improvements, daily viewed In all thy sections, speak thy future good, Bespeak thine own resources great, and fame, Some day, I trust, will yet adorn thy name : Thy sons and daughters good, tho' far removed From what the world calls great, because improved By time and wealth, high rank where every art That cultivates the mind, makes firm the heart — Hath been bestowed. Yet innate "coorih is here, Friendship, and charity, and hearts sincere — That keenly feel the taunts of those who blend Rude ign'rance with thy name, and still contend That with respect to mind and graces rare. We, forest hred^ with them cannot compare ; 152 THE LAY OF Unconscious all the while, how much we see Their lack of knowledge, with regard to thee. L. See, by the river side, in vernal hue, A lovely little village meets the view ; Each cottage there, embosom'd in a grove. The wished-for seat of calm, domestic love. There round the rural town, the prospect smiles^ Of hills and dales, of woods and beauteous isles ; Sweet as the breath of spring, and softer still The scene persuasive, seems to banish ill. There represented Majesty resides, O'er civil and o'er martial law presides — There the Head-quarters of our troops are held, Where many gay and gallant hearts have dwell'd ; There, since a separate Province thou hast been. Thy people's Representatives convene — Where each petitioner's earnest prayer is heard : Granted, if just — refused, if absurd. There are enacted our Provincial laws, Which justly claim the meed of our applause. 'Tis Fredericton, where those who early came. Lost not by loyalty their well-earned fame — Professional cares they had, for care is known To all, save sleeping infancy alone ; THE WILDERNESS. 153 A necessary evil, else would we Grow vicious, losing all stability. My Lay is o'er, permit me now to rest, Thy welfare ever on my heart impressed ; A goodly landscape, pleasing to the eye, The home of Virtue, and of Liberty — Where health and competence go hand in hand, Is thine New-Brunswick — thine My Native Land. I WOTES. NOTES ON INTRODUCTION. The comhinatiom sweet which crowned Spring Hill. — P. v. Spring Hill, was formerly the name given to the Farm adjoining Presque Isle. The rural path that wound around rock D.-^F. v. Rc-sk D. took its name from one who was celebrated for his personal attractions. A more romantic spot cannot well be imagined than the grove of poplars which surrounded it. Here some of the happiest mo- ments of the author were spent; who, being aware that many places owe their celebrity to circumstances of smaller import, than having once been the favorite seat cf virtuous innocence, cannot resist the temptation of giving rock T>. a note. A dreamy smoke mov^d lazily at will, Or hung around in fanciful festoons. — P. vi. During the spring and summer months, in newly settled places, a blue wreath of smoke is seen hanging in the air, or resting on the hills, as is lescribed in the foregoing poem. This smoke is occasioned by the -:ettlerE burning innumerable heaps of brush, dried leaves, and under- vood, ia order to clear the land for cultivation. Dear in my memory too, the playful scene. That graced Presque Isle, — and gave it busy life, — P. vf. Presque Isle is romantically situated on an eminence fronting the Ri- ver Saint John, one hundred and seventy miles from the sea, and takes N 158 KOTES ON INTRODUCTION. its name from an Island on the opposite shore. Soon after the Ameri* can Loyalists came to this Province, a small Military Out-Post was erected at Presque Isle, for the purpose of keeping the Indians, (then numerous and troublesome,) under partial subjection. A Captain, two Subalterns, a Surgeon, a Commissary, and a detachment of an hundred men, were stationed there at first ; but as the Indians became quiet, the de- tachment was reduced to a Sergeant's party, and at last to a party of men only 3 or 4 in number: the Commissary then acted in a double capacity, as Commissary and Commandant, until the barracks became untenable; after which it was deemed unnecessary by government to hold that situati- on any longer as an Out-post, and the garrison was ultimately withdrawn* and Presque Isle is now a common. Each soldier on that station had been allowed to grow his own vegetables; consequently, the land appropriated to the use of the Garrison was cleared — and Presque Isle, at one time, pre- sented to the eye, a pleasing view, of well cultivated fields, interspersed with meadows, pastures, and fiower gardens; in the latter, a rustic bower was usually erected, in which the half farmer, half military man, found solace after the fatigues of the day. That once gave shelter to an aged crone. — P. vii* This aged person was the wife of a Corporal, who, for many years, was stationed at Presque Isle. At the period mentioned in the Poem, Mary was one hundred years old — yet she retained her facul- ties in great perfection. She had emigrated from Ireland to America in early womanhood, with her husband, and settled in Maryland — the inhabitants of which State, at that time, were kept in constant terror of the natives, who frequently visited them in the dark hour of midnight, bringing murder and rapine in their train. She related with great perspicuity many horrible tales of slaughter made by the Indians, among the helpless settlers : Often, she said, when toiling in the field, with her husbatxi, (who had his fii-e arms constantly at his side,) had she kept her eye upon their dogs, which acted as sentinels, as they sagaciously could scent the Indians afar off; and the bristling of the hair upon the dogs' back was a sure token that they were lurking around the neighbour- hood. She had worked for weeks together in the fields, when the uneasiness of their dogs warned her at intervals through the day, that the murderous foe was not far distant, and hei self and husband were finally driven from their farm, by the natives; soon after which time her husband died, and she again married at the commencement of the Ame- rican revolutionary War, a man who enlisted in the British army; NOTES ON CANTO I. 159 she was with liim during the whole campaign, in which lime she was subjected to all the vicissitudes incidental to a military life. She came to this province with the troops, after the peace, and was again left a ■widow. Several years after, she entered the holy banns of wedlock for the third time, with the before-mentioned corporal, — and Mary eventu- ally joined the campaign in Canada, in 1814, and died shortly after in a Convent at Quebec. NOTES ON CANTO I. Where rose the chieftain^s camp above the rest. Towards which the stranger forward boldly pressed. St. Ill, p. IS. The chief or governor's wigwam, is always considerably larger than those of the rest of the tribe . It has been remarked by the early settlers of New-Brunswick, that when a native from a neighbouring tribe drew near the shore of an Indian village, he moved his canoe stealingly on, until he cast his eye upon the wigwam of the chief; then, as if by the impulse of the moment, he ran his canoe on shore, and without once turning his eyes to the right or to the left, walked haughtily on, and entered the camp of the Chief. And taught thy natives to revere the name Of the Redeemer — made them kiss the rod, — St. IV, p. 14. The French Missionaries, in the earlier stages of Christianity among the natives of this Province, exercised high ecclesiastical power over them, and enjoined the strictest submission to the several modes of pu- nishment, best calculated to create a reverential fear (both in a moral and spiritual point of view,) of the sacred character of those who were appointed to instruct them. The Priests generally resorted to a very summary mode of chastise- ment ; not unfrequenlly were delinquents obliged to prostrate themselves on the earth, before their holy instructor, who stood prepared with a rod to inflict such stripes as he deemed necessary for the offence— after which, 160 NOTES ON CANTO I. they were commanded to kiss the rod, and to return thanks to him for the favours he had so lavishly bestowed. Raz*d were their hamlets ^ slaughter'' dt too, their dames. St. V. p. 15. When France owned what are now justly termed the British North American Colonies, a fort was erected on a small island, (which is now called Navy Island,) lying near the mouth of the river St. John, in N. Brunswick, and garrisoned by French troops, as a kind of safe- guard to the French inhabitants then settled on the River. This fort was taken by the British troops, when sent to conquer the Colony; they then proceeded up the river eighty or ninety miles, where the French had settled down in unsuspecting quietness, and took their villages by surprise. It is related by the descendants of those French, who first broke ground in this Province, that their forefathers were cruelly treated by the British soldiers who were sent to subdue, or rather to disperse them. One circumstance was peculiarly distressing to the inhabitants — A detachment of soldiers had been sent up the river during the winter, as far as the French settlements ; these, after scattering the people and destroying their villages, set out on their return to the fort, accompanied by a beautiful young French girl, whom they had torn from the arms of her distracted mother; the unhappy girl travelled with them thro' the snow, till her strength failed and she could no longer keep pace with the more hardy troops. They finding her thus unable to proceed, deli- berately knocked the unfortunate creature in the head, with the butt end of their muskets, and left her body on the ice. A still more aggravating cir- cumstance is related of a married woman, who had been but a few hours confined of an infant, when the soldiers arrived; — her husband fled to the woods, leaving bis helpless partner to the mercy of the conquerors. The infant was killed in the presence of its agonizing mother, and she was compelled to walk as prisoner, till at length she fell, through extreme weakness, and was herself put to death by the soldiers in cold blood. At that remote period, New-Brunswick had no land carriages whatever, consequently the soldiers were unable to convey such prisoners to a place of safety. The above statement indirectly admits that our troops were not dis" posed at first to destroy the helpless part of the French community; but owing to the inconvenience, they then had to labour under, they were Induced, to perfect the business they were sent upon, ana the French NOTES ON CANTOS II-III. 161 women and children, as Bonaparte evasively expressed himself on similar occasions, were " abandoned to their fate." NOTE ON CANTO II. Yet lent no aid; the crazed, bewildered child Thought from the west, its rays glanced thro'' the wild; St. XXVI. p. 52. It 13 a reniarkable fact, that those who lose their way in a wilderness, lose also iheir reasoning faculties to such a degree, that to them the course of Nature appears changed — the sun and moon rise in the west, and set in the east, and streams of running water seem hastening a di- rection contrary to their usual course, and every other object appears to be the reverse of what it before had been — and, so firmly fixed are they iu this belief, that it requires the strongest persuasion to convince them the change is alone in their own minds. An instance is known to the author, of a person who had lost himself in the woods, where his mind became so bewildered, although in company with three of his friends, that it was with the greatest difficulty they could persuade him to retrace his own steps, he obstinately persisting, that they were leading him astray. NOTES ON CANTO III. They early learn to love To stroll at will— free as the winds of heaven. And no inducement ever can be giv^n To make them change their kettle, light fusee, Their bark canoe, their modes of living free — For all the luxuries of wealth or art. Or all the joys refinement can impart. — St. III. p. 64. The same religious and philanthropic spirit which now prevails in Great-Britain and the United States, for sending Missionaries to the n2 162 NOTES ON CANTO III. different quarters of the globe, to reclaim and civilize the unenlightened part of mankind, induced certain individuals, soon after New-Bruns- wick was settled by the English, to endeavour to meliorate the condi- tion of the Aborigines of this country. A fund which had been pre- viously raised, and applied towards educating a tribe of Indians in New-England, through the mun ificence of some benevolent person in England, was transferred to this Province. Agents were appointed, and schools established, for teaching the juvenile branches of the Abo- rigines — particularly one at Sussex Vale — and ii20 per annum was given to those persons who would midertake to bring up an Indian child until he arrived at the age of twenty-one years; but however com- mendable or praiseworthy the object was in itself, the scheme proved a complete failure. Whether this was owing to the mismanagement of the persons employed to superintend the business, or to the strong at- tachment the natives had to their unsettled and roving mode of life, together with a total indifference to the advantages of education, the writer cannot undertake to say; but it is a well known fact, ihat those Indians who were sent to school, or were brought up in English fami- lies, turned out abandoned and depraved. They imbibed all the vices of the white man, and learnt none of his virtues. That love of free- dom, and impatience of restraint, so peculiar to the savage, became weakened — they acquired no skill in hunting, and became, in a great measure, outcasts from their own tribe. Their fondness for intoxica- ting liquor, made them frequent those places where it w^as easily to be obtained; and, being naturally indolent, they have degenerated to the lowest and most degraded state. Till they had reached the Tobique^s limpid stream. St. VII. p. 67. The Tobique river empties into the river Saint John, and is prover- bial for the transparency of its waters. It has been, from time imme- morial, a favorite resort for the Indians of this Province, owing probably to the vast number of Salmon frequenting its waters, and the facility with which they are speared, when sleeping at night on the bottom of this pellucid stream. Aged was Pierre, 'twas he alone ihat spoke. St. X. p. 64. The Indians, in all their consultations, allow only one person to speak. He whcun the tribe deems the most experienced, is chosen. NOTES ON CANTO III. 163 and the assembly abide implicitly by his suggestions or advice. Even in their traffic with the Colonists, is this custom observed: the articles for sale may belong to a number of the tribe, yet only one of the parly is permitted to dispose of them, the rest of the owners keeping a pro- found silence, or merely hinting, in an under tone, their approval, or disapprobation of the price offered. Where the dark Wabskahagen waters glide — That red, discolored stream, with rapid tide. St. XI. p. 6S. Wabskahagen is the name given by the native Indians to a stream which joins the Tobique, about eighteen or twenty miles from its mouth. The water of the Wabskahagen forms a singular contrast to that of the Tobique, it having a dark red hue, which is dis- cernible some distance below the mouth of the stream, until it be- comes blended with the clear waters of the Tobique, and is no longer distinguishable. There build thy wigwam ^mid the dark red pine. St. XI. p. 68. The Red Pine formerly abounded in that part of JXew'-Brunswick, and grew in beautiful and majestic groves on the borders of the Wab- skahagen, in some places extending back several miles on each side of the sireara. In general, the Red Pine grows very straight, and is taller, in proportion to its circumference, than any other tree in the Province. The taper of some of these trees is scarcely perceptible below the limbs, which are seldom seen less than fifty feet from the ground; their foliage (if it can be termed such,) is very thick, and of the darkest green. — An experienced eye can distinguish a Red from a White Pine, as far as their tops are discernible, by the difference in the shade of their foliage. NOTE ON CANTO IV. The tide was up when Frederick reached the shore. Where stood the Indian House, now seen no more. St. XXX. p. 110. During the American Revolution, the Indians of New-Brunswick often betrayed a hostile disposition towards the English cause, and as ihey were very numerous, it was deemed good policy by our Govern- ment to conciliate their esteem, by allowing them provisions, articles of clothing, etc. From time to time, and not unfrequently were they in- dulged with ardent spirits, by Major Studholm, then Commandant of Fort Howe : the Indians being immoderately fond of rum, were often drawn in crowds to the Fort by its irresistible attractions, and drank it to excess, and frequently a scene of savage licentiousness en- sued. The Commandant found himself very uncomfortably situated; for at tiiat period the Indians would bear no remonstrance — they held themselves as *' all one brother^^ with him, and he was fearful of un- deceiving them. Arrangements were therefore made to relieve him of his turbulent visitors, and a house was erected, exclusively for ihei'r use, on the river shore, nearly a mile from the Fort, to which they withdrew after receiving their donations. It took the name of the Indian House, and a thriving little village, bearing its name, now stands near its site. NOTES ON CANTO V, There sai Jerome, whose grizzled locks were bare. St. XXII. p. 122. Jerome was an Indian, well known to the early settlers of this Pro- vince: having murdered his wife, he was, as is the custom among tbo NOTES ON CANTO V. 165 Indians, expelled from their society, as a punishment for the crime of which he had been guilty. His own conscience smote him for the deed he had done, and forced him to frequent the houses of the settlers, where he felt himself safe from the imagined attacks of the apparition of his murdered wife. The Indians of his tribe scorned to associate with him, even when hunting; and he actually did, as is described in the poem, foiTn a circle of fire at night, in the middle of which he laid him- self down to rest, but he seldom slept, being obliged to keep a sharp look out, lest the spectre of his wife should come upon him unawares. His lei- sure hours were devoted to drawing a sketch of the ground he purposed travelling over in search of Moose, or other game ; when he had finished his draught, he invariably imitated the chase over it, with the most lu- dicrous gestures, till he worked up his passions to a sort of phrenzy, and at such times seemed insensible to all around him. Haste to the camp, where those proud banners wave. St. XXXIV. P. 140. The Indians of this Province generally erect on their village ground a log wigwam, sufliciently large to contain an hundred and fifty or two hundred persons — which wigwam is appropriated to the use of the com- mimity, as a public building, where their wedding feasts are held, and where the tribe assemble when choosing a Governor. Here also their young men resort for pastime: who are expert in feats of strength and agility, and skilled in many games of chance, unknown to our Co- lonists. On all public occasions, a flag, or banner, is hoisted on the top of this building, to denote that business of importance is going forward within. THE END. Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: March 2009 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724)779-2111 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 014 152 782 4 ^