St. John. 1647

"To the winds give our banner!     Bear homeward again!"     Cried the Lord of Acadia,     Cried Charles of Estienne;     From the prow of his shallop     He gazed, as the sun,     From its bed in the ocean,     Streamed up the St. John.     O'er the blue western waters     That shallop had passed,     Where the mists of Penobscot     Clung damp on her mast.     St. Saviour had looked     On the heretic sail,     As the songs of the Huguenot     Rose on the gale.     The pale, ghostly fathers     Remembered her well,     And had cursed her while passing,     With taper and bell;     But the men of Monhegan,     Of Papists abhorred,     Had welcomed and feasted     The heretic Lord.     They had loaded his shallop     With dun-fish and ball,     With stores for his larder,     And steel for his wall.     Pemaquid, from her bastions     And turrets of stone,     Had welcomed his coming     With banner and gun.     And the prayers of the elders     Had followed his way,     As homeward he glided,     Down Pentecost Bay.     Oh, well sped La Tour     For, in peril and pain,     His lady kept watch,     For his coming again.     O'er the Isle of the Pheasant     The morning sun shone,     On the plane-trees which shaded     The shores of St. John.     "Now, why from yon battlements     Speaks not my love!     Why waves there no banner     My fortress above?"     Dark and wild, from his deck     St. Estienne gazed about,     On fire-wasted dwellings,     And silent redoubt;     From the low, shattered walls     Which the flame had o'errun,     There floated no banner,     There thundered no gun!     But beneath the low arch     Of its doorway there stood     A pale priest of Rome,     In his cloak and his hood.     With the bound of a lion,     La Tour sprang to land,     On the throat of the Papist     He fastened his hand.     "Speak, son of the Woman     Of scarlet and sin!     What wolf has been prowling     My castle within?"     From the grasp of the soldier     The Jesuit broke,     Half in scorn, half in sorrow,     He smiled as he spoke:     "No wolf, Lord of Estienne,     Has ravaged thy hall,     But thy red-handed rival,     With fire, steel, and ball!     On an errand of mercy     I hitherward came,     While the walls of thy castle     Yet spouted with flame.     "Pentagoet's dark vessels     Were moored in the bay,     Grim sea-lions, roaring     Aloud for their prey."     "But what of my lady?"     Cried Charles of Estienne.     "On the shot-crumbled turret     Thy lady was seen:     "Half-veiled in the smoke-cloud,     Her hand grasped thy pennon,     While her dark tresses swayed     In the hot breath of cannon!     But woe to the heretic,     Evermore woe!     When the son of the church     And the cross is his foe!     "In the track of the shell,     In the path of the ball,     Pentagoet swept over     The breach of the wall!     Steel to steel, gun to gun,     One moment, and then     Alone stood the victor,     Alone with his men!     "Of its sturdy defenders,     Thy lady alone     Saw the cross-blazoned banner     Float over St. John."     "Let the dastard look to it!"     Cried fiery Estienne,     "Were D'Aulnay King Louis,     I'd free her again!"     "Alas for thy lady!     No service from thee     Is needed by her     Whom the Lord hath set free;     Nine days, in stern silence,     Her thraldom she bore,     But the tenth morning came,     And Death opened her door!"     As if suddenly smitten     La Tour staggered back;     His hand grasped his sword-hilt,     His forehead grew black.     He sprang on the deck     Of his shallop again.     "We cruise now for vengeance!     Give way!" cried Estienne.     "Massachusetts shall hear     Of the Huguenot's wrong,     And from island and creekside     Her fishers shall throng!     Pentagoet shall rue     What his Papists have done,     When his palisades echo     The Puritan's gun!"     Oh, the loveliest of heavens     Hung tenderly o'er him,     There were waves in the sunshine,     And green isles before him:     But a pale hand was beckoning     The Huguenot on;     And in blackness and ashes     Behind was St. John