Château Papineau

(Afloat) I. THE Red-tiled towers of the old Château, Perched on the cliff above our bark, Burn in the western evening glow. The fiery spirit of Papineau Consumes them still with its fever spark, The red-tiled towers of the old Château! Drift by and mark how bright they show, And how the mullioned windows—mark! Burn in the western evening glow! Drift down, or up, where’er you go, They flame from out the distant park, The red-tiled towers of the old Château. So was it once with friend, with foe; Far off they saw the patriot’s ark Burn in the western evening glow. Think of him now! One thought bestow, As, blazing against the pine trees dark, The red-tiled towers of the old Château Burn in the western evening glow! (Ashore) II. Within this charmèd cool retreat Where bounty dwelt and beauty waits, The Old World and the New World meet. Quitting the straggling village street, Enter,—passing the great gray gates, Within this charmèd cool retreat. Where thrives a garden, ancient, neat, Where vulgar noise ne’er penetrates, The Old World and the New World meet. For mouldering vault and carven seat Tell us that France predominates Within this charmèd cool retreat, Though Canada be felt in beat Of summer pulse that enervates: The Old World and the New World meet In dial, arbor, tropic heat. Enter! And note, how clear all states That, in this charmèd cool retreat, The Old World and the New World meet. III. The garden ’s past. ’T is forest now Encircling us with leafy tide, Close clustering in green branch and bough. So beautiful a wood, we vow, Was never seen, so fresh, so wide. The garden ’s past, ’t is forest now, ’T is more, ’t is Canada, and how Should feudal leaven lurk and hide Close clustering in green branch and bough? Quaintly the dial on the brow Of yonder open glade is spied; The garden ’s past, ’t is forest now, Yet doth the dial straight endow The green with glamour undenied, Close clustering in green branch and bough. Such relics who would disallow? We pause and ponder; turn aside; The garden ’s past, ’t is forest now, Close clustering in green branch and bough. IV. The glint of steel, the gleam of brocade, “Monseigneur” up in his tarnished frame, A long low terrace, half sun, half shade; Tapestry, dusty, dim, and frayed, Fauteuil and sofa, a flickering flame, A glint of steel, a gleam of brocade; “Mdme.” on the wall as a roguish maid, Later—some years—as a portly dame, The long low terrace, half sun, half shade, Where “Mdme.’s” ghost and “Monsieur’s” parade And play at ombre, their favorite game! The glint of steel, the gleam of brocade, Hang over hall and balustrade. Paceth a spectral peacock tame The long low terrace, half sun, half shade. Waketh a nightly serenade Where daylight now we see proclaim The glint of steel, the gleam of brocade, The long low terrace, half sun, half shade! V. The spell of Age is over all, The lichened vault, the massive keep, The shaded walks, the shadowy hall, And mediæval mists enthrall The senses bathed in beauty sleep,— The spell of age is over all! No marvel if a silken shawl Be sometimes heard to trail and sweep The shaded walks, the shadowy hall. No marvel if a light footfall Adown the stair be heard to creep,— The spell of age is over all. A foot—we muse—both arched and small, Doth often tread this terrace steep, Those shaded walks, this shadowy hall— A foot as white as trilliums tall— Musing, the wall we lightly leap. The spell of Age is over all! The shaded walks—the shadowy hall.