Just yesterday my eyes were cast Upon a slow outgoing mast, So phantom-like against the sky, I watched it dip the orb and die. While memory with caravan Of ghost-like ships before me ran, Straight through the center of this maze, A tiny island held my gaze. No spectre there except a breeze, Like doleful alto in the trees. Soft weeping clouds and cold starlight Trade mournful vigils through the night. Here DeMonts' men, wan, starved and ill, Harassed by death and winter's chill, With Glory's mantle 'round the breast, -- A score and ten were laid to rest. And when from some more poignant pen Fall ballads of forgotten men, Those bleached bones shall live again, To stand in honour with Champlain. Content upon yon briny cross, They sleep amid the tangled floss Of wild seaweed and sounding deep, While two great nations guard their sleep. |