Part 8 (1/2)

But around the homestead's blazing hearth Will they find sweet rest from toil, And many an hour of harmless mirth While the snow-storm piles the soil.

Then, why should we grieve for summer skies-- For its shady trees--its flowers, Or the thousand light and pleasant ties That endeared the sunny hours?

A few short months of snow and storm, Of winter's chilling reign, And summer, with smiles and glances warm, Will gladden our earth again.

THE OLD TOWERS OF MOUNT ROYAL OR VILLE MARIE.

On proud Mount Royal's Eastern side, In view of St. Lawrence's silver tide, Are two stone towers of masonry rude, With ma.s.sive doors of time-darken'd wood: Traces of loop-holes are in the walls, While softly across them the sun-light falls; Around broad meadows, quiet and green, With grazing cattle--a pastoral scene.

Those towers tell of a time long past, When the red man roamed o'er regions vast, And the settlers--men of bold heart and brow-- Had to use the sword as well as the plough; When women (no lovelier now than then) Had to do the deeds of undaunted men, And when higher aims engrossed the heart Than study of fas.h.i.+ons or toilet's art.

A hardy race from beyond the sea Were those ancient founders of Ville Marie!

The treacherous Sioux and Iroquois bold Gathered round them as wolves that beset a fold, Yet they sought their rest free from coward fears; Though war-whoops often reached their ears, Or battle's red light their slumbers dispel,-- They knew G.o.d could guard and protect them well.

Look we back nigh two hundred years ago: Softly St. Lawrence bright waters flow, s.h.i.+nes the glad sun on each purple hill, Rougemont, St. Hilary, Boucherville, Kissing the fairy-like isle of St Paul's, Where, hushed and holy, the twilight falls, Or St. Helen's, amid the green wave's spray, All lovely and calm as it is today.

No villas with porticos handsome, wide, Then dotted our queenly mountain's side; No busy and populous city nigh Raised steeples and domes to the clear blue sky; Uncleared, unsettled our forests h.o.a.r Unbridged out river, unwharfed each sh.o.r.e; While over the waves of emerald hue Glided, lightly, the Indian's bark canoe.

It was in those towers--the Southern one-- Sister Margaret Bourgeoys, that sainted nun, Sat patiently teaching, day after day, How to find to Jesus the blessed way, 'Mid the daughters swarth of the forest dell, Who first from her lips of a G.o.d heard tell, And learned the virtues that woman should grace, Whatever might be her rank or race.

Here, too, in the chapel-tower buried deep, An Indian _brave_ and his grand-child sleep.*

True model of womanly virtues--she-- Acquired at Margaret Bourgeoys' knee; He, won to Christ from his own dark creed, From the trammels fierce of his childhood freed, Lowly humbled his savage Huron pride, And amid the pale-faces lived and died.

With each added year grows our city fair, The steepled church, and s.p.a.cious square, Villas and mansions of stately pride Embellish it now on every side; Buildings--old land marks--vanish each day, For stately successors to make way; But from change like that may time leave free The ancient towers of Ville Marie!

[* Subjoined are their epitaphs, still to be seen in the tower we speak of:

Ici reposent Les restes mortels de Francois Thoronhiongo, Huron, Baptise par le Reverend Pere Brebeuf.

Il fut par sa piete et par sa probite, l'exemple des chretiens et l'admiration des infideles; il mourut age d'environ 100 ans, le 21 avril 1690.

Ici reposent Les restes mortels de Marie Therese Gannensagouas de la Congregation de Notre Dame.

Apres avoir exercee pendant treize ans l'office de maitresse d'ecole a la montagne, elle mourut en reputation de grande vertu, agee de 28 ans, le 25 novembre 1695.]

JACQUES CARTIER'S FIRST VISIT TO MOUNT ROYAL.

He stood on the wood-crowned summit Of our mountain's regal height, And gazed on the scene before him, By October's golden light, And his dark eyes, earnest, thoughtful, Lit up with a softer ray As they dwelt on the scene of beauty That, outspread, before him lay.

Like a sea of liquid silver, St. Lawrence, 'neath the sun, Reflected the forest foliage And the Indian wigwams dun, Embracing the fairy islands That its swift tide loving laves, Reposing in tranquil beauty Amid its sapphire waves.

To the eastward, frowning mountains Rose in solemn grandeur still, The glittering sunlight glinting On steep and rugged hill; Whilst in the far horizon, Past leafy dell and haunt, Like a line of misty purple, Rose the dim hills of Vermont.