Books: The Poetical Works of Mrs. Leprohon (Mrs. R.E. Mullins)

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True, her brow has lost the smoothness
And her cheek the fresh young glow
That adorned them on that autumn
Morning--fifty years ago;
But, oh! think not that her Bridegroom
Loves her anything the less;
He sees but the inward beauty
And the spirit's loveliness.

Cloister honors long have fallen
Ceaseless, constant, to her lot,
But, like cloister honors falling,
Unto one who sought them not;
Daughter meek of the great Foundress
Of thy honored house and name,
Worthy art thou to be Abbess
Of the nuns of Notre Dame!

ON THE DEATH OF THE SAME REVEREND NUN,
THE VENERABLE MOTHER ST. MADELEINE,
TEN YEARS LATER.

In Memoriam.

Grief reigns now within the convent walls,
And sadly float through its silent halls
The notes of a requiem--solemn, clear,
Falling like wail on each listening ear,
And with tearful eyes and features pale,
With low bowed head and close drawn veil,
To the convent church, round a bier to kneel,
The daughters of Marguerite Bourgeoys steal.

Scant is the mourning pomp displayed,
Nor plumes nor hangings of gloomy shade,
But rev'rend prelates and priests are there,
With crowds of mourners joining in prayer;
Each sister's heart is filled with grief,
To which faith alone can bring relief,
Deploring the loss of that sainted nun,
Friend, mother and abbess, all in one.

Yet why should sorrow fill thus each breast?
That well loved one has entered her rest,
To live in eternal, cloudless light,
To live in our memories, blessed and bright;
Her chair may be vacant--her place unfilled--
But her mission high was all fulfilled.
And the thought of how well she did her part
Will ever dwell in each sister's heart.

Sixty-one years passed in convent home,
Amassing wealth for a world to come,
Sixty-one years of constant prayer,
Of cloister duties fulfilled with care,
Of gentle aid to each sister dear,
Kind tender counsel--sympathy's tear,
Of high commune with her Maker, known
Perchance to herself and to God alone.

Sixty-one years, oh! think of it well,
Since first she entered the convent cell!
On her cheek youth's soft and roseate dyes,
Its radiant light in her cloudless eyes,
Turning from earth's alluring wiles,
From worldly promptings, from pleasure's smiles,
From love's soft pleading look and tone,
To give herself unto God alone.

Since then she has witnessed many a change,
In the world around her, startling, strange;
Her much loved Order growing in strength
Throughout America's breadth and length;
Our young city stretching far and wide,
Till it reaches Mount Royal's verdant side,
Where, fair as an Eden, through leafy screen,
Villa Maria is dimly seen.

Timeworn foreheads and brows of snow
Has the one we mourn seen in dust laid low;
Fair girlish novice and nun professed,
Quietly gathered to earth's dark breast;
But with thoughts on heaven, she, through all,
Patiently waited her Father's call,
It came, and now she lays gladly down
Her long borne cross to take up her crown.

Montreal, January, 1869.

THE RIVER SAGUENAY.

Few poets yet in praise of thee
Have tuned a passing lay,
Yet art thou rich in beauties stern,
Thou dark browed Saguenay!

And those grand charms that surely form
For earth her rarest crown
On thee, with strangely lavish hand,
Have all been showered down.

Thine own wild flood, so deep, so dark;
That holds the gaze enthralled
As if by some weird spell, at once
Entranced yet not appalled;

Seeking in vain to pierce those depths,
Where wave and rock have met,
Those depths which, by the hand of man,
Have ne'er been fathomed yet.

And then thy shores--thy rock bound shores,
Where giant cliffs arise,
Raising their untrod, unknown heights
Defiant to the skies,

And casting from their steep, stern brows
Shadows of deepest gloom
Athwart thy wave, till it doth seem
A passage to a tomb.

Such art thou in thy solitude,
Majestic Saguenay!
As lonely and as sternly rude
As in time past away,

When the red man in his fragile bark
Sped o'er thy glassy wave,
And found amid thy forests wild
His cradle, home and grave.

All, all is changed--reigns in his stead
Another race and name,
But, in thy lonely grandeur still,
Proud River, thou'rt the same!

NARRATIVE AND DESCRIPTIVE POEMS.

RED ROCK CAMP.

A TALE OF EARLY COLORADO.

My simple story is of those times ere the magic power of steam
First whirled the traveller o'er the plains with the swiftness of
a dream,
Reducing to a few days' time the journey of many a week,
That fell of old to the miner's lot ere he "sighted" tall Pikes
Peak.

'Neath liquid sunshine filling the air, 'mid masses of wild
flowers gay,
A prairie waggon followed the track that led o'er the plains
away;
And most of those 'neath its canvas roof were of lawless type and
rude--
Miners, broad-chested and strongly built, a reckless,
gold-seeking brood.

Yet two of the number surely seemed most strangely out of place,
A girl with fragile, graceful form, shy look, and beauteous face,
One who had wrought out the old, old tale, left her home and
friends for aye,
Braved family frowns and strangers' smiles, love's promptings to
obey.

And the lover husband at her side no miner rough was he,
If we may believe the shapely hands as a woman's fair to see;
But his tall, lithe form, so strongly knit, firm mouth and look
of pride,
Told of iron will, resolved to win a home for his darling bride.

Tender he was, but the plains were vast, toilsome and tedious the
way,
Developing soon the fever germs that within her latent lay,
And daily the velvet azure eyes with a brighter lustre burned,
And the hectic flush of the waxen cheek to a deeper carmine
turned.

Oh! dread was the time 'neath that canvas close when she bravely
fought for breath,
Fire in her veins, while panting came each laboring painful
breath!
At length one eve she clasped his neck, with a wild and wailing
cry:
"O, darling, lay me on God's green earth, 'neath his sun bright
clouds to die!"

Mutely the bridegroom caught her up after that touching appeal;
Why refuse her prayer when on her brow was already set death's
seal?
To proffered help and rough words of hope, to protests whispered
low,
He murmured, "Leave us, go on your way! Comrades it must be so."

Then, in the eyes of those reckless men bright tears were
glistening seen,
For in their rugged, though willing, way most kindly had they
been;
No selfish fears of sickness dire had they shown by look or word,
For whate'er of good dwelt within each heart that helpless girl
had stirred.

They raised a tent, and from their stores they brought the very
best,
Whisp'ring of speedy help to come as each clammy hand they
pressed.
"Nay, friends," he said with a short, sharp laugh, more painful
than sob to hear,
"No help send back, for myself and wife must perforce both settle
here."

Then he sat him down, and placed her head on his aching,
throbbing breast,
While the sweeping rush of the prairie winds seemed to bring
relief and rest,
And her dim eye watched, without a shade of regret or passing
pain,
The receding waggon, soon a speck on the wide and boundless
plain.

"O Will! on your true and tender heart, happy and calm I die,
For I know our lives, though severed here, will be joined again
on high:
One kiss, my husband, loving and loved, one clasp of thy strong
kind hand,
One farewell look in thy mournful eyes ere I pass to the Spirit
Land!

"But, God! what is this?" she wildly asks with hurried, panting
gasp;
Her fingers have touched a weapon of death in her husband's hand
close clasped:
"O, surely, you would not--dare not--go uncalled to your Maker's
sight?"
"Wife, when passes your spirit away, mine, too, shall take its
flight."

It boots not to tell of the loving prayers that welled from that
true wife's heart,
She sued with an angels holy power, a woman's winning art,
Till that desp'rate man, with quick low sob, his weapon tossed
away,
And promised, till came his Maker's call, on this cheerless earth
to stay.

Then sunshine lit up her wan white face and brightened her
failing eyes,
Enkindling upon her marble cheek the glow of the sunset skies;
Closer she nestled unto his breast with a smile of childlike
bliss;
"Already a foretaste of yon bright Heaven is given me, Will, in
this!"

A little while and the lashes drooped, unstirred by life's faint
breath,
Whilst the sweet smile on the perfect lips was sealed, for aye,
by Death.
With the second sunset he laid her in her lonely prairie grave,
Then joined a passing miner's band that a friendly welcome gave.

But as time sped on, all, wond'ring, marked his silent, lonely
ways,
And the brooding nature, recking naught for blame, nor mirth, nor
praise.
At rudest tasks of the miner's toil with fevered zeal he wrought,
But to its tempting golden spoils he gave nor word nor thought.

Soon want and toil and autumn rains brought fever in their train,
And Red Rock Camp resounded with delirious moans of pain;
And the healthy shrank from the fevered ones, with hard,
unpitying eye,
And, heeding but their selfish fears left the sick, unnursed, to
die.

Then unto the stranger in their midst, new hope and vigor came,
Enkindled swift in that nature grand by charity's ardent flame;
He nursed the sick and buried the dead, by the dying watched,
until
The grateful miners blessed the chance that had brought them
"Parson Will."

'Twas thus they named him. Health returned to the stricken camp
again.
One victim more the fever claimed--'twas he; nor grief nor pain
Could be discerned in those patient eyes, but they shone with a
radiant light
As he whispered: "Joy and gladness come close after the cold dark
night;
A few short hours, and from life's dull chain will my weary heart
be free,
Then, Angel Wife, my promise kept, I go to God and thee!"

BOUND FOR CALIFORNIA.

With buoyant heart he left his home for that bright wond'rous
land
Where gold ore gleams in countless mines, and gold dust strews
the sand;
And youth's dear ties were riven all, for as wild, as vain, a
dream
As the meteor false that leads astray the traveller with its
gleam.

Vainly his father frowned dissent, his mother, tearful, prayed,
Vainly his sisters, with fond words, his purpose would have
stayed;
He heard them all with heedless ear, with dauntless heart and
bold--
Whisp'ring to soothe each yearning fear "I go to win you gold."

Restless he paced the deck until he saw the sails unfurled
Of the ship which was to bear him to that new and distant world;
And when his comrades stood with him and watched the lessening
land,
His clear laugh rose the loudest 'mid that gay gold-seekers'
band.

In changing moods of grief and mirth the ocean way was passed,
And all were weary, when the cry of "Land" was heard at last.
Like birds escaped from thraldom long, the happy, smiling crowd
Thronged to the deck with eager looks, rejoicing long and loud.

Yet one was missing 'mid that band who foremost should have been,
Whose hopeful heart had cheered them oft when winds blew fierce
and keen;
And when dead calms or drizzling rains made the ocean way seem
long
Had wiled the time with lively tale, with jest, or stirring song.

But a sudden change had come o'er him, his ringing voice was
hushed,
The smooth young cheek grew pallid, or, at times, was deeply
flushed;
And now he lay in his lonely cot, a prey to sickness drear,
His frame all filled with racking pain--his heart with doubt and
fear.

"Oh, raise me up," he faintly breathed, "that I one glance may
win
Of that long looked for promised land I ne'er may enter in;
Till I recall the tender words of friends, well loved of old--
The friends I left without a pang, in idle search for gold."

The Exile's prayer was soon obeyed, and round his fevered brow
The cool land breeze is playing, but death's damps are on it now!
His spirit passed from earth away as Sol's last dying beams
Lit up the golden Eldorado of all his boyish dreams.

THE GIRL MARTYR.

Upon his sculptured judgment throne the Roman Ruler sate;
His glittering minions stood around in all their gorgeous state;
But proud as were the noble names that flashed upon each shield--
Names known in lofty council halls as well as tented field--
None dared approach to break the spell of deep and silent gloom
That hover'd o'er his haughty brow, like shadow of the tomb.

While still he mused the air was rent with loud and deaf'ning
cry,
And angry frown and darker smile proclaimed the victim nigh.
No traitor to his native land, no outlaw fierce was there,
'Twas but a young and gentle girl, as opening rose bud fair,
Who stood alone among those men, so dark and full of guile,
And yet her cheek lost not its bloom, her lips their gentle
smile.

At length he spoke, that ruthless chief, in tones both stern and
dread:
"Girl! listen! mark me well, or else thy blood be on thy head!
Thou art accused of worshipping Jesus the Nazarene--
Of scorning Rome's high, mighty Gods,--speak, say if this has
been?
I fain would spare thee, for thy name among our own ranks high;
Thine age, thy sex, my pity move, I would not see thee die!

"If thou hast dared at foreign shrine to rashly bend the knee,
Recant thine errors, and thy guilt cancelled at once shall be."
Undaunted spoke she, "In His steps unworthy have I trod,
And spurned the idols vain of Rome for Him, the Christian's God.
I fear not death, however dread the ghastly shape he wear,
He whom I serve will give me strength thy torments all to bear."

Darker than e'en the darkest cloud became her judge's brow,
And stern the threats he thundered forth. "What dost thou dare
avow?
Retract thy words, or, by the Gods! I swear that thou shall die!"
Unmoved she met his angry frown--his fierce and flashing eye:
"Nay, I have spoken--hasten now, fulfil thy direful task,
The martyr's bright and glorious crown is the sole boon I ask."

Fierce was the struggle raging then within her judge's breast,
For she, that girl, in tones of love, he once had low addressed;
And lowly as his haughty heart at earthly shrine might bow
He'd loved the being, young and bright, who stood before him now.
With iron might he'd nerved himself to say the words of fate,
To doom to death the girl he sought--but sought in vain--to hate.

Yet now, e'en in the final hour, 'spite of his creed of crime,
His ruthless heart and fierce belief, love triumphed for a time.
"Irene! girl!" he wildly prayed, "brave not Rome's fearful power!
Mad as thou art, she'll pardon thee, e'en in the eleventh hour;
Cast but one grain of incense on yon bright and sacred fire,
And outraged as thy rulers are, 'twill calm their lawful ire!"

"Bend but thy knee before the shrine where we've so often knelt,
Joined in the same pure orisons--the same emotion felt;
Forsake a creed whose very God with scorn was crucified--,
Irene, hear me, and thou It be again my life and pride!"
He pressed the censer in her hand, of which one single throw
Would have restored her all the state, the bliss, that earth
might know;

But she, inspired by heavenly grace, the censer dashed aside:
"I've said I but believe in Him who on Mount Calvary died!"
He spoke no word, her cruel judge had hurled his glittering dart;
Barbed with relentless rage, it found his victim's dauntless
heart.
She but had time to breathe a prayer that he might be forgiven,
And in that breath her spotless soul had passed from earth to
heaven.

CORNELIA'S JEWELS.

Among the haughtiest of her sex, in noble, quiet pride,
Cornelia stood, with mien that seemed their folly vain to chide:
No jewels sparkled on her brow, so high, so purely fair,
No gems were mingled 'mid her waves of dark and glossy hair;
And yet was she, amidst them all, despite their dazzling mien,
A woman in her gentle grace--in majesty a queen.

While some now showed their flashing gems with vain, exulting
air,
And others boasted of their toys, their trinkets rich and rare,
And challenged her to treasures bring that shone with equal
light,
Proudly she glanced her dark eye o'er the store of jewels bright.
"Rich as these are," she answered then, "and dazzling as they
shine,
They cannot for one hour compete in beauty rare with mine!

"You all seem doubtful, and a smile of scorn your features wear,
Look on my gems, and say if yours are but one half as fair?"
The Roman matron proudly placed her children in their sight
Whose brows already bore the seal of intellectual might;
She pressed them to her, whilst each trait with radiance seemed
to shine,
And murmur'd, "Tell me, dare you say, your jewels outshine mine?"

ST. FRANCIS OF BORGIA BY THE COFFIN OF QUEEN ISABEL.

"Open the coffin and shroud until
I look on the dead again
Ere we place her in Grenada's vaults,
Where sleep the Monarchs of Spain;
For unto King Charles must I swear
That I myself have seen
The regal brow of the royal corpse,
Our loved, lamented Queen."

The speaker was Borgia, Gaudia's Duke,
A noble and gallant knight,
Whose step was welcome in courtly halls,
As his sword was keen in fight.
To him had his Monarch given the task
Of conveying to the tomb.
The Princess ravished from his arms
In the pride of youthful bloom.

While they slowly raised the coffin lid,
Borgia stood silent by,
Recalling the beauty of the dead
With low, half-uttered sigh--
Longing to look on that statue fair
That wanted but life's warm breath,
That matchless form which he hoped to find
Beautiful e'en in death.

'Tis done, and with silent, rev'rent step
To the coffin draws he near,
And sadly looks in its depths, where lies
Spain's Queen, his sovereign dear.
But what does he see? What horrors drear
Are those that meet his eye,
For he springs aside and shades his brow
With a sharp, though stifled, cry?

Ah' youth and beauty, in spirit gaze
On what that coffin holds--
On the fearful object that now lies
In the shroud's white ample folds:
Nay, turn not away with loathing look,
Lest that hideous sight you see,
In a few short years from now, alas!
It is what we all shall be.

Let us learn as Francis Borgia learned,
By that lifeless form of clay,
To despise the changing things of earth,
All doomed to swift decay--
Deep into his heart the lesson sank,
Effacing earthly taint,
And Spain's Court lost a gallant knight,
While the Church gained a Saint!

ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA AT THE CHAPEL OF OUR LADY OF MONTSERRAT.

'Tis midnight, and solemn darkness broods
In a lonely, sacred fane--
The church of Our Lady of Montserrat,
So famous throughout all Spain;
For countless were the pilgrim hosts
Who knelt at that sacred shrine
With aching hearts, that came to seek
Relief and grace divine.

Pure as the light of the evening star
Shines the lamp's pale, solemn ray,
That burns through midnight's hush and gloom,
As well as the glare of day,
Like the Christian soul, enwrapped in God,
Resigning each vain delight,
Each earthly lure, to burn and shine
With pure love in His sight.

Softly the gentle radiance falls
On a mail-clad warrior there,
Who humbly bows his stately head
In silent, earnest prayer;
It flashes back from his corslet bright,
From each shining steel clad hand,
And the brow which tells that he was born
To pomp and high command.

Say, who is he, that vigil keeps,
Like the warrior knights of old,
Through the long lone hours of the silent night,
Ere they donned their spurs of gold?
A soldier brave and proud is he,
And bears a noble name,
Since Pampeluna's glorious day
Won Loyola his fame.

What doth he at this lowly shrine?
What mean those prayers and sighs,
The tearful mist that dims the light
Of his flashing, eagle eyes?
They tell of life's vain pomps and pride
Esteemed as worthless dross,
For the dauntless soldier has become
The soldier of the Cross.

That sword, that once like lightning swept
Through ranks of foes hard pressed,
Now hangs beside Our Lady's shrine,
Henceforth in peace to rest,--
And soon the penitent's rough, dark robe,
His girdle and cowl of gloom,
Will replace the soldier's armor bright,
And his lofty, waving plume.

Well done, well done, thou warrior brave!
A noble choice is thine!
What are the laurels of earth beside
The joys of bliss divine?
And thou hast won, though seeking not,
The saint's undying fame--
Christ's Holy Church will evermore
Revere and bless thy name!

CHARLES VII AND JOAN OF ARC AT RHEIMS.

A glorious pageant filled the church of the proud old city of
Rheims,
One such as poet artists choose to form their loftiest themes:
There France beheld her proudest sons grouped in a glittering
ring,
To place the crown upon the brow of their now triumphant king.

The full, rich tones of music swelled out on the perfumed air,
And chosen warriors, gaily decked, emblazoned banners bear:
Jewels blazed forth, and silver bright shone armor, shield and
lance,
Of princes, peers, and nobles proud, the chivalry of France.

The object of these honors high, on lowly bended knee,
Before the altar homage paid to the God of Victory;
Whilst Renaud Chartres prayed that Heaven might blessings shower
down
On that young head on which he now was chosen to place a crown.

Fair was the scene, but fairer far than pomp of church or state,
Than starry gems or banners proud, or trappings of the great,
Was the maiden frail whose prophet glance from heaven seemed to
shine,
Who, in her mystic beauty, looked half mortal, half divine.

Her slight form cased in armor stern, the Maid of Orleans stood,
Her place a prouder one than that of prince of royal blood:
With homage deep to Heaven above, and prayers to Notre Dame,
She waived above the monarch's head proud Victory's Oriflamme.

Then, as the clouds of incense rose, encircling in its fold
That shining form, the kneeling king, the canopy of gold,
It seemed unto the gazers there a scene of magic birth,
Such as is rarely granted to the children of this earth.

Sudden a mystic sadness steals o'er Joan's features bright,
Robbing her brow, her earnest eyes, of their unearthly light:
A voice from Him, by whose right arm her victories had been won,
Had whispered, 'bove the clank of steel, "Thy mission now is
done."

Perchance the future, then, was shown to her pure spirit's gaze,
The future with its sufferings, the shame, the scaffold's blaze;
The deaf'ning shouts, the surging crowd, the incense, mounting
high,
Foreshadowed to her shrinking soul the death she was to die.

The youthful monarch now was crowned, and lowly at his feet
Did France's saviour bend her form, rendering homage meet.
No guerdon for past deeds of worth sought that young noble heart,
She, who might all rewards have claimed, asked only to depart.

Oh! France! of all the stoned names that deck thy history's page,
Thy sainted kings, thy warriors proud, thy statesmen stern and
sage,
None, none received the glorious light, the strange Promethean
spark
That Heaven vouchsafed thy spotless maid, immortal Joan of Arc!

THE FOUR WISHES.

"Father!" a youthful hero said, bending his lofty brow
"On the world wide I must go forth--then bless me, bless me, now!
And, ere I shall return oh say, what goal must I have won--
What is the aim, the prize, that most thou wishest for thy son?"

Proudly the father gazed upon his bearing brave and high,
The dauntless spirit flashing forth from his dark brilliant eye:
"My son, thou art the eldest hope of a proud honored name,
Then, let thy guiding star through life--thy chief pursuit--be
fame!"

"'Tis well! thou'st chosen, father, well--it is a glorious part!"
And the youth's glance told the wish chimed well with that brave
ardent heart.
"Now, brother, thou'lt have none to share thy sports till I
return,--
Say, what shall be the glitt'ring prize that I afar must earn?"

"The world," said the laughing boy, "on heroes poor looks cold,
If thou art wise as well as brave, return with store of gold."
"Perchance thou'rt right!" and now he turned to his sister young
and fair,
Braiding with skill a glossy tress of his own raven hair.

"'Tis now thy turn, sweet sister mine, breathe thy heart's wish
to me,
If I've the power, 'twill be fulfilled, ere I return to thee."
The maiden blushed and whispring low, "I prize not wealth or
pride,
But, brother, to thy future home bring back a gentle bride."

The merry smile her words had raised fled, as with falt'ring
voice,
He asked of her, the best beloved, "Mother, what is _thy_
choice?"
"My son! my son!" she softly said, "hear my wish ere we part--
Return as now thou goest forth, with true and guileless heart!"

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