I

IF, Pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead

Where, emblem of our holy creed,

Canadian crosses glow—

There you may hear what here you read,

And seek in witness of the deed

Our Ladye of the Snow![A]

In the old times when France held sway

From the Balize to Hudson's Bay,

O'er all the forest free,

A noble Breton cavalier

Had made his home for many a year

Beside the Rivers three.

To tempest and to trouble proof

Rose in the wild his glittering roof,

To every traveller dear;

The Breton song, the Breton dance,

The very atmosphere of France,

Diffused a generous cheer.

Strange sight that on those fields of snow

The genial vine of Gaul should grow

Despite the frigid sky!

Strange power of Man's all-conquering will,

That here the hearty Frank can still

A Frenchman live and die!

II

The Seigneur's hair was ashen grey,

But his good heart held holiday,

As when in youthful pride

He bared his shining blade before

De Tracey's regiment on the shore

Which France has glorified.

Gay in the field, glad in the hall,

The first at danger's frontier call,—

The humblest devotee

Of God and of St Catharine dear

Was the stout Breton cavalier

Beside the Rivers three.

When bleak December's chilly blast

Fettered the flowing waters fast,

And swept the frozen plain—

His custom was, come foul, come fair,

For Christmas duties to repair,

Unto the Ville Marie,

The city of the mount, which north

Of the great River looketh forth

Across its sylvan sea.

Fast fell the snow, and soft as sleep,

The hillocks looked like frozen sheep,

Like giants grey the hills—

The sailing pine seemed canvas-spread,

With its white burden over-head,

And marble hard the rills.

A thick dull light, where ray was none

Of moon or star, or cheerful sun,

Obscurely showed the way—

While merrily upon the blast

The jingling horse-bells, pattering fast,

Timed the glad roundelay.

Swift eve came on, and faster fell

The winnowed storm on ridge and dell,

Effacing shape and sign—

Until the scene grew blank at last,

As when some seaman from the mast

Looks o'er the shoreless brine.

Nor marvel aught to find ere long

In such a scene the death of song

Upon the bravest lips—

The empty only could be loud

When Nature fronts us in her shroud

Beneath the sky's eclipse.

Nor marvel more to find the steed,

Though famed for spirit and for speed,

Drag on a painful pace—

With drooping crest and faltering foot,

And painful whine, the weary brute

Seems conscious of disgrace;

Until he paused with mortal fear,

Then plaintive sank upon the mere

Stiff as a steed of stone—

In vain the master winds his horn,

None save the howling wolves forlorn

Attend the dying roan.

III

Sad was the heart and sore the plight

Of the benumbed, bewildered knight

Now scrambling through the storm.

At every step he sank apace—

The death dew freezing on his face—

In vain each loud alarm!

The torpid echoes of the Rock

Answered with one unearthly mock

Of danger round about!

Then, muffled in their snowy robes,

Retiring sought their bleak abodes,

And gave no second shout.

Down on his knees himself he cast,

Deeming that hour to be his last,

Yet mindful of his faith—

He prayed St Catharine and St John,

And our dear Ladye called upon

For grace of happy death.

When lo! a light beneath the trees,

Which clank their brilliants in the breeze,

And lo! a phantom fair

Oh! lovelier, lovelier far than pen,

Or tongue, or art, or fancy's ken

Can picture, was her face—

Gone was the sorrow of the sword,

And the last passion of our Lord

Had left no living trace!

As when the moon across the moor

Points the lost peasant to his door,

And glistens on his pane—

Or when along her trail of light

Belated boatmen steer at night,

A harbor to regain—

So the warm radiance from her hands

Unbind for him Death's icy bands,

And nerve the sinking heart—

Her presence makes a perfect path.

Ah! he who such a helper hath

May anywhere depart.

All trembling, as she onward smiled,

Followed that Knight our mother mild,

Vowing a grateful vow—

Until, far down the mountain gorge,

She led him to the antique forge

Where her own shrine stands now.

If, Pilgrim, chance thy steps should lead

Where, emblem of our holy creed,

Canadian crosses glow—

There you may hear what here you read,

And seek, in witness of the deed,

Our Ladye of the Snow!