 | Tales of the border |  |
151
THE CAPUCHIN.
[There is a tradition preserved among the French of a
celebrated missionary of their nation, who was one of the
earliest of the explorers of the Mississippi and its tributaries,
and who died at some spot which is now unknown.
We have endeavoured to preserve some of the circumstances,
which are related as having attended his death, in
the following lines.]
There is a wild and lonely dell,
Far in the wooded west,
Where never summer's sunbeam fell
To break its long lone rest;
Where never blast of winter swept,
To ruffle, or to chill,
The calm pellucid lake, that slept
O'erhung with rock an hill.
A woodland scene by hills enclosed,
By rocky barriers curbed,
Where shade and silence have reposed
For ages undisturbed,
Far in the wooded west,
Where never summer's sunbeam fell
To break its long lone rest;
Where never blast of winter swept,
To ruffle, or to chill,
The calm pellucid lake, that slept
O'erhung with rock an hill.
A woodland scene by hills enclosed,
By rocky barriers curbed,
Where shade and silence have reposed
For ages undisturbed,
152
Unless when some dark Indian maid,
Or prophet old and grey,
Have hied them to the solemn shade
To weep alone, or pray.
For holy rite and gentle love
Are still so near akin,
They ever choose the sweetest grove
To pay their homage in.
One morn the boatman's bugle note
Was heard within the dell,
And o'er the blue wave seemed to float
Like some unearthly swell.
The boatman's song, the plash of oar,
The gush of parting wave,
Are faintly heard along the shore,
And echoed from each cave.
A skiff appears, by rowers stout
Urged swiftly o'er the tide;
An aged man sat wrapt in thought,
Who seemed the helm to guide.
He was a holy capuchin,
Thin locks were on his brow;
His eye, that bright and bold had been,
With age was darkened now.
From distant lands, beyond the sea,
The hoary pilgrim came
To combat base idolatry,
And spread the Holy Name.
Or prophet old and grey,
Have hied them to the solemn shade
To weep alone, or pray.
For holy rite and gentle love
Are still so near akin,
They ever choose the sweetest grove
To pay their homage in.
One morn the boatman's bugle note
Was heard within the dell,
And o'er the blue wave seemed to float
Like some unearthly swell.
The boatman's song, the plash of oar,
The gush of parting wave,
Are faintly heard along the shore,
And echoed from each cave.
A skiff appears, by rowers stout
Urged swiftly o'er the tide;
An aged man sat wrapt in thought,
Who seemed the helm to guide.
He was a holy capuchin,
Thin locks were on his brow;
His eye, that bright and bold had been,
With age was darkened now.
From distant lands, beyond the sea,
The hoary pilgrim came
To combat base idolatry,
And spread the Holy Name.
153
From tribe to tribe the good man went,
The sacred cross he bore;
And savage men, on slaughter bent,
Would listen and adore.
But worn with age, his mission done,
Earth had for him no tie,
He had no further wish, save one—
To hie him home and die.
—“Good father, let us not delay
Within this gloomy dell;
'Tis here that savage legends say
Their sinless spirits dwell.
“In every cool sequestered cave
Of this romantic shore,
The spirits of the fair and brave
Unite, to part no more.
“Invisible, the light canoe
They paddle o'er the lake,
Or track the deer in the morning dew,
Among the tangled brake.
“'Tis said their forms, by moonlight seen,
Float gently on the air;
But mortal eye has seldom been
The fearful sight could bear.
“Then, holy father, venture not
To linger in the dell;
It is a pure and blessed spot,
Where only spirits dwell.
The sacred cross he bore;
And savage men, on slaughter bent,
Would listen and adore.
But worn with age, his mission done,
Earth had for him no tie,
He had no further wish, save one—
To hie him home and die.
—“Good father, let us not delay
Within this gloomy dell;
'Tis here that savage legends say
Their sinless spirits dwell.
“In every cool sequestered cave
Of this romantic shore,
The spirits of the fair and brave
Unite, to part no more.
“Invisible, the light canoe
They paddle o'er the lake,
Or track the deer in the morning dew,
Among the tangled brake.
“'Tis said their forms, by moonlight seen,
Float gently on the air;
But mortal eye has seldom been
The fearful sight could bear.
“Then, holy father, venture not
To linger in the dell;
It is a pure and blessed spot,
Where only spirits dwell.
154
“The hallowed foot of prophet seer,
Or pure and spotless maid,
May only dare to wander here
When night has spread her shade!”
—“Dispel, my son, thy groundless fear,
And let thy heart be bold;
For see, upon my breast I bear
The consecrated gold.
“The blessed cross! that long hath been
Companion of my path—
Preserved me in the tempest's din,
Or stayed the heathen's wrath—
“Shall guard us still from threatened harm,
What form soe'er it take:
The hurricane, the savage arm,
Or spirit of the lake.”
—“But, father, shall we never cease
Through savage wilds to roam?
My heart is yearning for the peace
That smiles for us at home.
“We've traced the river of the west,
From sea to fountain head,
And sailed o'er broad Superior's breast,
By wild adventure led.
“We've slept beneath the cypress' shade,
Where noisome reptiles lay;
We've chased the panther to his bed,
And heard the grim wolf bay.
Or pure and spotless maid,
May only dare to wander here
When night has spread her shade!”
—“Dispel, my son, thy groundless fear,
And let thy heart be bold;
For see, upon my breast I bear
The consecrated gold.
“The blessed cross! that long hath been
Companion of my path—
Preserved me in the tempest's din,
Or stayed the heathen's wrath—
“Shall guard us still from threatened harm,
What form soe'er it take:
The hurricane, the savage arm,
Or spirit of the lake.”
—“But, father, shall we never cease
Through savage wilds to roam?
My heart is yearning for the peace
That smiles for us at home.
“We've traced the river of the west,
From sea to fountain head,
And sailed o'er broad Superior's breast,
By wild adventure led.
“We've slept beneath the cypress' shade,
Where noisome reptiles lay;
We've chased the panther to his bed,
And heard the grim wolf bay.
155
“And now for sunny France we sigh,
For quiet, and for home;
Then bid us pass the valley by
Where only spirits roam.”
—“Repine not, son! old age is slow,
And feeble feet are mine;
This moment to my home I go,
And thou shalt go to thine.
“But ere I quit this vale of death,
For realms more bright and fair,
On yon green shore my feeble breath
Shall rise to Heaven in prayer.
“Then high on yonder headland's brow
The holy altar raise;
Uprear the cross and let us bow,
With humble heart, in praise.”
Thus said, the cross was soon uprear'd
On that lone heathen shore,
Where never Christian voice was heard
In prayer to God before.
The old man knelt—his head was bare,
His arms crossed on his breast;
He prayed, but none could hear the prayer
His withered lips expressed.
He ceased—they raised the holy man,
Then gazed in silent dread;
Chill through each vein the life-blood ran—
The pilgrim's soul was fled!
For quiet, and for home;
Then bid us pass the valley by
Where only spirits roam.”
—“Repine not, son! old age is slow,
And feeble feet are mine;
This moment to my home I go,
And thou shalt go to thine.
“But ere I quit this vale of death,
For realms more bright and fair,
On yon green shore my feeble breath
Shall rise to Heaven in prayer.
“Then high on yonder headland's brow
The holy altar raise;
Uprear the cross and let us bow,
With humble heart, in praise.”
Thus said, the cross was soon uprear'd
On that lone heathen shore,
Where never Christian voice was heard
In prayer to God before.
The old man knelt—his head was bare,
His arms crossed on his breast;
He prayed, but none could hear the prayer
His withered lips expressed.
He ceased—they raised the holy man,
Then gazed in silent dread;
Chill through each vein the life-blood ran—
The pilgrim's soul was fled!
156
In silence prayed each voyager,
Their beads they counted o'er,
Then made a hasty sepulchre
Upon that fatal shore.
Beside the altar where he knelt,
And where the Lord released
His spirit from its pilgrimage,
They laid the holy priest.
In fear, in haste, a brief adieu
The wondering boatmen take,
Then rapidly their course pursue
Across the haunted lake.
In after years, when bolder men
The vale of spirits sought,
O'er many a wild and wooded glen
They roamed, but found it not.
We only know that such a priest
There was, and thus he fell;
But where his saintly relics rest,
No living man can tell.
The red man, when he tells the tale,
Speaks of the wrath that fell
On him that dared an altar raise,
In the Indian's spirit-dell.
Their beads they counted o'er,
Then made a hasty sepulchre
Upon that fatal shore.
Beside the altar where he knelt,
And where the Lord released
His spirit from its pilgrimage,
They laid the holy priest.
In fear, in haste, a brief adieu
The wondering boatmen take,
Then rapidly their course pursue
Across the haunted lake.
In after years, when bolder men
The vale of spirits sought,
O'er many a wild and wooded glen
They roamed, but found it not.
We only know that such a priest
There was, and thus he fell;
But where his saintly relics rest,
No living man can tell.
The red man, when he tells the tale,
Speaks of the wrath that fell
On him that dared an altar raise,
In the Indian's spirit-dell.
| Tales of the border | |