"I hope not, captain," said I; "I have been starving since
daybreak."
"The bread, the butter, the beef, the onions, and potatoes are
here, sir," said honest Sam, particularizing each article.
"All right; pull for the ship. Mrs. Moodie, we will have a glorious
supper, and mind you don't dream of Grosse Isle."
In a few minutes we were again on board. Thus ended my first day's
experience of the land of all our hopes.
OH! CAN YOU LEAVE YOUR NATIVE LAND?
A Canadian Song
Oh! can you leave your native land
An exile's bride to be;
Your mother's home, and cheerful hearth,
To tempt the main with me;
Across the wide and stormy sea
To trace our foaming track,
And know the wave that heaves us on
Will never bear us back?
And can you in Canadian woods
With me the harvest bind,
Nor feel one lingering, sad regret
For all you leave behind?
Can those dear hands, unused to toil,
The woodman's wants supply,
Nor shrink beneath the chilly blast
When wintry storms are nigh?
Amid the shades of forests dark,
Our loved isle will appear
An Eden, whose delicious bloom
Will make the wild more drear.
And you in solitude will weep
O'er scenes beloved in vain,
And pine away your life to view
Once more your native plain.
Then pause, dear girl! ere those fond lips
Your wanderer's fate decide;
My spirit spurns the selfish wish -
You must not be my bride.
But oh, that smile - those tearful eyes,
My firmer purpose move -
Our hearts are one, and we will dare
All perils thus to love!
[This song has been set to a beautiful plaintive air,
by my husband.]
CHAPTER II
QUEBEC
Queen of the West! - upon thy rocky throne,
In solitary grandeur sternly placed;
In awful majesty thou sitt'st alone,
By Nature's master-hand supremely graced.
The world has not thy counterpart - thy dower,
Eternal beauty, strength, and matchless power.
The clouds enfold thee in their misty vest,
The lightning glances harmless round thy brow;
The loud-voiced thunder cannot shake thy nest,
Or warring waves that idly chafe below;
The storm above, the waters at thy feet -
May rage and foam, they but secure thy seat.
The mighty river, as it onward rushes
To pour its floods in ocean's dread abyss,
Checks at thy feet its fierce impetuous gushes,
And gently fawns thy rocky base to kiss.
Stern eagle of the crag! thy hold should be
The mountain home of heaven-born liberty!
True to themselves, thy children may defy
The power and malice of a world combined;
While Britain's flag, beneath thy deep blue sky,
Spreads its rich folds and wantons in the wind;
The offspring of her glorious race of old
May rest securely in their mountain hold.
On the 2nd of September, the anchor was weighed, and we bade a long
farewell to Grosse Isle. As our vessel struck into mid-channel, I
cast a last lingering look at the beautiful shores we were leaving.
Cradled in the arms of the St. Lawrence, and basking in the bright
rays of the morning sun, the island and its sister group looked
like a second Eden just emerged from the waters of chaos.
