[Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) being scattered chapters from the history of the Cooper, Pomeroy, Woolson and Benedict families, with extracts From their Letters and Journals, as well as articles and poems by Constance Fenimore Woolson |
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OFF THUNDER BAY.
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 | [Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) |  |
198
OFF THUNDER BAY.
A Legend of Lake Huron 1772.
“We sail, we sail in our Mackinac boat;
Over old Huron on we go;
Above, above us the summer clouds float,
Sailing aloft, as we sail below;
Behind us the north wind sings in our wake,
Wing-and-wing he bears us away;
And off to the right o'er the sparkling lake
Looms up the headland of Thunder Bay.”
Over old Huron on we go;
Above, above us the summer clouds float,
Sailing aloft, as we sail below;
Behind us the north wind sings in our wake,
Wing-and-wing he bears us away;
And off to the right o'er the sparkling lake
Looms up the headland of Thunder Bay.”
Her brown hands toy with the flowers in her lap—
Spicy juniper, balsam sweet;
Her black hair waves from her red-beaded cap
Down to her little moccasined feet,
“Alone with ourselves, alone with our love,
Wing-and-wing through the summer day,
We sail below, and the clouds sail above,
O'er the deep waters off Thunder Bay.”
Spicy juniper, balsam sweet;
Her black hair waves from her red-beaded cap
Down to her little moccasined feet,
“Alone with ourselves, alone with our love,
Wing-and-wing through the summer day,
We sail below, and the clouds sail above,
O'er the deep waters off Thunder Bay.”
Up on the Evergreen Isle in the north,
The Indian mother silent waits;
The old French father strides back and forth,
And hails the ship coming through the straits:
“Ho, brave voyageur, our child hast thou seen—
Petite Marie, Flower of the Snow?
We find but the fringe of her mantle green,
The print of her foot off Tuskenoe.”
“Ah, oui, Antoine,” cries the voyageur.
The Indian mother silent waits;
The old French father strides back and forth,
And hails the ship coming through the straits:
“Ho, brave voyageur, our child hast thou seen—
Petite Marie, Flower of the Snow?
We find but the fringe of her mantle green,
The print of her foot off Tuskenoe.”
“Ah, oui, Antoine,” cries the voyageur.
“Down on Huron her boat we met;
But a blue-eyed stranger was with La Fleur,
And all the canvas was southward set,
The wind was fair, the boat sailed at its best,
Wing-and-wing went dancing away;
They sailed south-east, we were tacking north-west,
We passed each other off Thunder Bay.”
O'er the island fort the English flag waves;
English soldiers pace to and fro;
Behind, the plateau with Indian graves,
A little French town on the beach below.
The old commander comes down from the height,
Hails the vessel with pompous mien:
“A young subaltern escaped last night—
A boat sailing southward have you seen?”
“Ah oui, Capitaine” cries the voyageur,
Bowing before the gold-laced form;
“We saw a young soldier with sweet La Fleur;
We caught the gleam of his uniform;
Two lovers behind, and two sails before;
Wing-and-wing they vanished away—
First a sail, then a speck, then nothing more,
Save the blue offing of Thunder Bay.”
But a blue-eyed stranger was with La Fleur,
And all the canvas was southward set,
The wind was fair, the boat sailed at its best,
Wing-and-wing went dancing away;
They sailed south-east, we were tacking north-west,
We passed each other off Thunder Bay.”
199
English soldiers pace to and fro;
Behind, the plateau with Indian graves,
A little French town on the beach below.
The old commander comes down from the height,
Hails the vessel with pompous mien:
“A young subaltern escaped last night—
A boat sailing southward have you seen?”
“Ah oui, Capitaine” cries the voyageur,
Bowing before the gold-laced form;
“We saw a young soldier with sweet La Fleur;
We caught the gleam of his uniform;
Two lovers behind, and two sails before;
Wing-and-wing they vanished away—
First a sail, then a speck, then nothing more,
Save the blue offing of Thunder Bay.”
The Indian mother soon passed away—
Passed away with her fading race:
But year after year, and day after day,
French Antoine watched with eager face—
Watched the long point of the green Bois-Blanc shore,
Watched for his child with longing pain,
Watched for the sail-boat that came back no more,
Watched out his lingering life in vain.
The cross of St. George came down from the height;
Stars and Stripes wave in Huron's breeze;
A hundred long years have rolled into night,
A navy dots the fresh-water seas;
But still the lake sailors see the white sails,
Wing-and-wing on a summer day;
As the boat glides past them the soldier hails,
And they hear his song off Thunder Bay.
Passed away with her fading race:
But year after year, and day after day,
French Antoine watched with eager face—
Watched the long point of the green Bois-Blanc shore,
Watched for his child with longing pain,
Watched for the sail-boat that came back no more,
Watched out his lingering life in vain.
The cross of St. George came down from the height;
Stars and Stripes wave in Huron's breeze;
A hundred long years have rolled into night,
A navy dots the fresh-water seas;
But still the lake sailors see the white sails,
Wing-and-wing on a summer day;
As the boat glides past them the soldier hails,
And they hear his song off Thunder Bay.
“We sail, we sail in our Mackinac boat;
Over old Huron on we go;
Above, above us the summer clouds float,
Sailing aloft as we sail below;
Behind us the north-wind sings in our wake,
Wing-and-wing he bears us away;
And off to the right o'er the sparkling lake,
Looms up the headland of Thunder Bay.”
Over old Huron on we go;
Above, above us the summer clouds float,
Sailing aloft as we sail below;
Behind us the north-wind sings in our wake,
Wing-and-wing he bears us away;
And off to the right o'er the sparkling lake,
Looms up the headland of Thunder Bay.”
| [Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) | |