ROBERVAL.

A LEGEND OF OLD FRANCE.

Never did rosy morning Sweep o'er the skirts of night, Calm nature's face adorning, With more intense delight; Never did earth exultant Summon her offspring all, To life-work, love and duty With more inspiring call,

Than in the young spring season, Three centuries ago, When Roberval set sail from France To skim broad ocean's flow. Nobles, rich, young and restless, Statesmen and soldiers too, Women of birth, and sailors, Composed the adventurous crew.

Leaving St. Malo's harbour. They steered in Cartier's wake, For that New France which Francis hoped A source of wealth to make. For of it wondrous stories Were floating in the air, A very Paradise it seemed Of joy beyond compare.

A vast, mysterious country, Studded with gems and gold, Where virgin soil and forests grand Were girt by headlands bold. A land of beauty, where 'twas said Celestial fountains played, Whose waters made the aged young, And Time's dread havoc stayed.

Such were the thrilling stories Of ancient Florida. And of that favoured part of it Now known as Canada. France, prompted by ambition, Was on its conquest bent, Though Rome to Spain had given The whole vast continent.

To subjugate a people In wildest freedom bred, Whose trade was armed barter, To utmost hardship wed, To potent savage nations, To teach the white man's creed; This was the hardy project That France's king decreed.

Among the group of women Was Marguerite, the fair Niece of the Viceroy, Roberval, Young, lovely, debonnaire, Like gleams of summer sunshine That glorify the sea, Among the ship's companions, Her presence seemed to be.

There, too, was a young noble, Who with her left his home, Content all honours to renounce, With her he loved to roam; Together had they plighted Their vows before high heaven, To the new faith together Their pledged adhesion given.

Before their loving pastor, And Marguerite's maid, with prayer, These Huguenots in secret, To sign the contract dare, In the still hour of midnight, Whilst all were thought to be, Bound in the gyves of slumber, In that ship far out at sea.

Alas! a listening traitor, Ere waned the morning star, Prompted by hate and malice, Had spread the secret far; And Roberval rose furious, In wild ungoverned rage, Against the hated heretics, A deadly war to wage.

Fast bind the men in irons, The women thrust, he said, Into a boat with fire-arms, Some powder, meat and bread, For see! the Isle of Demons Lies close athwart our lee, And they the fit companions Of its horned fiends shall be.

The wild, infernal orgies Of these winged imps of night Yet fill the air with horror, And thrill it with affright; To these I now consign them, Quick, thrust them out to sea, And through a life of torture May they repentant be.

Thus Roberval, the Viceroy, Thundered his fierce commands, As Leon, Marguerite's husband Burst from his iron bands, Plunged headlong in the wild flood And toward the threatening shore, Swam boldly forth'—defiant Of him and ocean's roar.

The swimmer and the boat's crew Long fought for life and breath, And all appeared together Entering the jaws of death, As Roberval steered from them, Outbreathing curses loud, And imprecations furious That stout hearts chilled and cowed.

The ship receded—vanished, Leaving the wave-tossed three All valiantly contending With the belated sea. The swimmer battled fiercely, With ocean's maddening strife, As the frail women bravely Contended for dear life.

Till haply, thanks to heaven, They're saved, for see, they stand Linked heart and hand together, The three once more on land. 'Tis said infernal demons, Beset them day and night, And with their shrieks satanic Chilled them with dire affright.

But a strong hand celestial Was ever interposed, And round about them ever A viewless barrier closed. Unutterably hideous, Th' infernal brood of hell, Howling in baffled fury, Around them powerless fell.

In course of time kind heaven Gave them a baby boy, Who filled their hearts with rapture, And thrilled them to new joy, But death soon stole their treasure, Then Leon made his own The Norman nurse then summoned, And Marguerite was alone!

Alone on that dread island, In whose accursed soil Her loved ones found unhallowed rest From harrowing care and toil. Still courage never failed her, Though fettered to the sod Where hideous fiends assailed her, To try her faith in God.

Though foes came gathering round her, Appalling to the view, From upper as from nether worlds, And nearer lurking drew, Of these, grim bears were foremost, Who boldly round her close, But with her gun brave Marguerite Slew three of these fierce foes.

Thus, though most gently nurtured, This maiden rose to be A heroine undaunted On the lone isle of the sea, And Leon was a hero, Who risked fame, fortune, life, To be the sworn defender Of helpless maid and wife.

Two dreary years of warfare Had passed o'er Marguerite's head, Crowded with deeds heroic, Since she with Leon wed, When, far at sea some whalers Observed a curling smoke Rise from the haunted island, Which fear and wonder woke.

Was it the trick of demons To lure them to the shore, And lead them on to ruin, As many had been before? They thought it was, and kept aloof, Then vague surmises made. That some unhappy mortal Might need their timely aid.

So, triumphing o'er terror, They warily drew nigh, Descried a female figure Waving her signals high; Clothed in the skins of white bears, So lovely she appeared, That the brave-hearted sailors Most gladly toward her steered.

Thus Marguerite was rescued, Through a heaven-directed chance, Restored to home and country In her beloved France. 'Tis said the baffled demons At her departure fled, And never to the island Again their legions led.

Firm in her new faith, Marguerite Was a brave pioneer, Of those devoted Hugenots, To true hearts justly dear, Who, half a century after, Composed that sturdy flock, Who from the good ship May Flower Landed on Plymouth rock.

And who shall say how many This noble woman led, To break their bonds asunder, Who were to priestcraft wed? And as I close this ballad, Historically true, Learn, reader, that its heroes Toiled not in vain for you.

NOTE—Isles of Demons: one of two islands north-east of Newfoundland supposed to have been given over to the fiends, from whom they derive their name, variously called by Thevet Isle de Fische, Isle de Roberval, and Isle of Demons. The Isle Fichet of Sanson and the Fishot Island of some modern maps.