Il avait mis en même temps sous pli, le manuscrit original d’un poème qui, je crois, n’a jamais été publié, et que j’insère ici pour le sauver de tout oubli possible.
Honneur à lui et à « Baptiste, mon frère ! »
The Pilgrin’s Tale
O Pilgrim from the Godbout’s shore
Where broad Atlantic billows roll
Speak ! hast thou seen the Commodore[1]
He whose unconquerable soul
A thirst for wilder, fiercer game
Than haunt the calm Laurentian streams
Burned to achieve a greater fame
And realize his fondest dreams.
Speak ! hast thou seen his grizzled looks
By Ocean’s vagrant breezes fann’d
Where Weymahegan’s[2] giant rocks
Keep watch and word o’er sea and land.
Hast seen him where the currents lave
Fair Mistassini’s[3]silver shore
On river — sea — by land or wave.
Speak ! hast thou seen the Commodore ?
The Pilgrim spoke, while down his cheek
The salt tears coursed grievously.
Good Sir, I feeble am and weak
Yet I my tale may tell to thee.
I saw the veteran’s wasted form,
That form we used to mark with pride,
Lie prostrate mid the wrack and storm
Of Weymahegan’s awful tide.
Small strength alack of wind or limb
Had he upon that fearful day,
But though his eagle eye was dim
Yet gazed he o’er the hills where lay
