The Recluse of New-Brunswick

by John Gordon Lorimer (1807–1897)

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The
RECLUSE
of
NEW-BRUNSWICK;
or,
HERMIT OF POINT LEPREAUX.

 

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A Poetic Tale.

 

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BY A NOVASCOTIAN,
in
CHARLOTTE COUNTY, NEW-BRUNSWICK.

 

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Be mine, to please my country and adorn my tale,With truth and fiction, such as truth itself would hail.The Author. 

 

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"And down his cheek the tear of pity roll’d—A tear so sweet he wish’d it not controll’d."Author of “Early Recollections.” 

 

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SAINT JOHN, N. B.
PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR.

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1842.

PREFACE.

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The Author of the following little work makes no pretensions to the attainments of the refined Poet—yet without arrogating to himself any thing of the classic minstrel’s lays, he still candidly acknowledges, that he entertains the opinion, that he is not altogether a stranger to the inspiring muse; consequently he humbly hopes that the kind reader will, after a patient perusal, feel himself justified in coinciding with him in his opinion; he also hopes that the subjects and characters introduced into the work will be found suitable for the purposes therein represented, and give the Author the merit of blending the “useful with the pleasant.”—To accomplish this desirable attainment, he draws his “bow at a venture,” humbly anticipating, that if he does not “hit the mark,” he may come so near it, that a generous-minded public will enable him to “fill his quiver with arrows,” so that he may send them winging their way with antidote for crime’s pernicious bane.

THE AUTHOR.

 

THE
RECLUSE OF NEW-BRUNSWICK,
or,
HERMIT OF POINT LEPREAUX.

 

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Dark was the night, and drear the storm that rag’d,In which the clements appear’d engagedIn unison, to fling destruction o’erThe late calm waters and the slumb’ring shore.The vivid lightning would e’en now pass by,And, passing, mock the eagle’s piercing eye!The fiery fluid from the vaulted sky,Would hers and there in quick succession fly.And now the thunder peal’d tremendously—Thunder, ’bout which so many disagree!Some say, that “’tis God’s voice in angry mood“For wickedness committed since the flood;”And others note it of “volcanic birth,‘Struggling to free itself from out the earth!”Who’s right or wrong, is all unknown to me—Suffice it, ’tis the work of Deity! And, revelation speaks it “reserv’d in store,”Annihilation's aid, when “time’s no more.”And on this night its peals did rollFrom arctic to antarctic pole!Caught in the storm—benighted, and alone—I weary walk’d, “unknowing and unknown”To all, but unto that omniscient eye,To whom’s alike, the sea, or earth, or sky.Thus went I on, ’midst the “pitiless storm,”No friend to cheer me—nor a home to warm;My trembling knees almost refus’d their weight—I felt that mine was an untimely fate.Methought a light gleamed near my closing eye—It pass’d away—I laid me down to die.The “tempest-storm” unconscious o’er me rav’d,Nor aught knew I, until, “you’re sav’d! you’re sav’d!”Resounded in mine ears, and then I feltA hand’s warm pressure from a form that kneltBeside me, while a soothing—trembling voice,Whisper’d such words as made my heart rejoice.“My friend, let nothing here afflict your breast,No howling storm will here disturb your rest—At perfect ease you here yourself may keep,A brother’s eye will watch you while you sleep.”“And where am I?” I audibly exclaimed,“And who are you? yourself a brother nam’d;Am I deluded by delusive dreams?Or, is it real, as real to me it seems?”“’Tis true—’tis real—’tis no delusive dream,All’s here indeed, as here to you does seem;I found you, lifeless-seeming, near my cave,I wept, and pray’d that God your life would save;I pray’d until the sun refulgent shone—When, lo! my pray’r was heard—I heard you groan!”I look’d upon the speaker, and my eyesWere fix’d on him with wonder and surprise— A stranger sav’d me from the rueful storm,And one so strange, possessing human form;His words likewise did my excitement raise,He seemed a Patriarch of ancient days,Whose long silvery locks and Jewish beardSeem’d present proofs of what I read or heardOf those before the flood, or even thoseWho stood as priests where holy incense rose—Pure worshippers of God! that sacrificePresented, swiftly rising to the skies.I look’d again, my canopy was rock,That safely stood amidst the tempest’s shock;No work of art adorn’d the rocky walls,Nor aught within, that admiration, calls;The simple rock in nature's plain attire,Seem’d form'd for one, who’d from the world retire.And, can it be, indeed, that I am whereA human being lives remote from care?Remote from social intercourse with man,Ere I depart, I’ll solve this if I can.These words the old man must have heard, for heSaid, “friend, I’ll solve for you this mystery—Aye, and I’ll tell you much of Brunswick shore,Of things unheard by any man before;These eyes have seen what now this tongue revealsTo you, but much—aye, much it still conceals.That I do live ‘remote from care,’ my friend,Is true, and ‘intercourse with man’ did endLong since, is likewise true, I feel it here!”He press’d his breast, and then he wip’d a tear.O for one ray of intellectual fireTo warm my brain and here my verse inspire!Thou “sacred nine,” who round Parnassus sing,And quaff large draughts from the “Castalian spring,”O let thy suppliant now on bended knee,Receive thy aid—such aid as pleaseth thee; Then, may I boldly strike my simple lyre—Perchance, ’twill live like some tall tow’ring spireIts “little hour,” or, rudely smitten down—In fragments lie neglected on the ground.Well, be it so, the work itself may findA kindred spirit to the builder’s mind;Perchance, of greater art and wider fame,Who’ll change, it to a thing of diff’rent name,Still it may live, and from its fragments raiseA something to exist, and merit praise.Now, my “advent’rous song” goes back to tellOf him, who, when I fainting, fainted, fell,And lay expos’d to die! such succour gaveAs quite restor’d and sav’d me from the grave!Of him I need not, for himself does speak—Wiping the “big tear” from his “furrowed check”—“Stranger, friend,” (he thus to me began.)“I feel that you're my fellow creature—man,And ’bide you here within my hermit cellTo hear my tale—for ere you leave, I wellDo know this aged head of mine will beQuiet in death! ’tis no vain prophecy.”Years have roll’d.” (and then he gaz’d around,)“Yes, years have pass’d since shelter here I found—One half century, and one quarter moreHave pass’d since first I trod New-Brunswick's shore;And, one century’s quarter, less twice two,Had pass’d o’er me when that I bade adieuTo parents, brothers, sisters, country, andThe fairest flow’r that bloom’d in Erin’s landPardon the weakness of a ‘poor old man,’For ‘flesh is flesh,’ resist it as we can;Pardon this weakness, for I here speak truth,When memory carries me back to scenes of youth,And flings the sombre veil of time aside,When youth in all its beauty, bloom and pride, Is seen to win with fascinating artSuch guileless art as captivates the heart,And makes the creature to the creature kneel—Ah! then we know how much the heart can feel.Thus have I felt aye, wonder not, I’ve feltAs others have, at beauty’s shrine I’ve kneltA worshipper! ’tis youth’s delirious ageTo stray away, to dread a hermitage.Smile not, stranger! my words are words of truth;We little know while in the days of youthThe ills of life—its snares and dangers drearOr, if known at all, how distant they appear, aeAnd thus deceiv’d, to run madly steer.’Tis true, some shun those ills and smoothly passO’er life’s beguiling wave—but few, alas!So happy are, that will the warning takeOf scripture’s pilots, and follow in their “wake,”Until they gain the port of endless restTo be companions of the good and blestAnd some are set apart by God’s decree,To live a life of sweet austerity;And by experience sage instructed beSuch, am I here, and from this rocky nookI have been taught without the aid of book,Save one—’tis broad creation’s ample page—’Tis this, with ‘aid divine!’ that makes me sage.Young, when I bow’d my head to enter here,With heart foreboding and desponding tear;The only being rescued from the waveThat clos’d o’er ninety souls a wat’ry grave,I knew not then the arm that stretch’d itself to save!His mercy boundless, nor his bounty less—Like old Elijah in the wilderness,I’m fed with all that nature’s wants require,By him who took him home on ‘wheels of fire’—The dome to which my longing hopes aspire. Short is my stay on earth, but, ere I go,I must fulfil my business here below;What long’s been lock’d up in my memory,I am required to tell in part, to thee.In part, I say, for only part is given—The rest is chronicled in Heaven!And, Heav’n alone will all the rest revealOn that great day when nothing can concealThe deeds of earth, (to man a ‘sealed book.’)Yes, when the voice that once ‘Mount Sinai shook’Will then proclaim the deeds and destinyOf mortals then with awful majesty!”So spake the sage while his uplifted eyeSeem’d lit with hope and holy exstacy!As some poor traveller absent from his homeWill homeward gaze and wish the hour to come—The happy hour that there will give him restWhere home’s sweet joys conspire to make him blest,Where all his ardent wishes, cherish’d, priz’d,Are far—far more than amply realiz’d.So gaz’d the aged Hermit of Point Lepreaux,And look’d away from things of earth belowTowards the skies, “unutterable things”Seem'd his, of whom my muse astonish'd sings;Again he spake, and thus spake he to me—“My time is short—my time is short with thee,Attention give; but thrice revolv’d yon sunSince that methought I saw a ‘shining one’Cloth’d with the robes of Heaven’s most pure array,Approach my cell just at the close of day,And as he nearer came methought he smil’dAnd said, ‘be of good cheer, Heaven’s favour’d child?I’m sent to tell you that to you is giv’nA work to do and then come home to Heav’n!Within this week,’ (so said Heaven’s messenger,}‘Will come this way a weaty traveller ; Near to your cave you’ll find him wretchedlyAt break of day, and just about to die;Each morning’s dawn, until you find him—seek,Then, raise his head, and words of comfort speak—Taught by thy benefactor to be good,I know with feelings of warm brotherhoodYou will receive him, for a wise decreeFor wise purposes sends him here to thee.To hear thy tale ere life’s pulse cease to beat—Unto this end, will guided be his feetNear to this spot, child of the good and blest!Obey the word to God—you’ll leave the rest;Some things there are that cannot yet be told,The time will come when fire which trieth goldWill try those things!’ he then before mine eyes,Shook his bright wings, and flew towards the skies!That you’re the man whose ears my tale must greet,Witness yourself, the angel’s prophecy completeSo far, the rest will soon accomplished be,Witness yourself, the Hermit’s prophecy!My time is short, and much I have to say,Proceed I’will, aye, that I will straightway;And here I must revert to days of youth,When I instructed was in ways of truth,And by a parent’s hand was weekly ledWhere hungering souls with heavenly food were fed;Taught by a faithful shepherd of the flock,To build, not on the sand, but on the rock.How ‘Erin’s sons’ in holy cement growSo strong, so firm, that nought can them o’erthrow.How sweet the sabbath to the pious mind,To dwell upon the theme my mind's inclined—Its pleasures pure, and holily refined.And though I’ve been located here for years,The Sabbath peals still vibrate in mine ears,And now my mind enjoys most sweet delight To know that I’ll meet ere Saturday night,Friends of the Sabbath ’mid angels of light.But my work to perform bids me proceedWith my tale the land of ‘mountain and mead’^[1]Is still dear to my heart, dear even now,’Though long’s the time since a ship’s gallant prow,The ‘wings of the wind’ from Erin’s loved shore,Wafted far o’er the wave to return there no more.On board of that fated ship I came here,And often has roll’d the old Hermit’s tearWhen recollection would picture the sceneThat transpired here on a Saturday e’en;The groans and the cries seem still in mine earOf those who closed here their mortal career;The pious, the gay, all, all sank beneathThe white foaming wave! not one escaped death;But New-Brunswick’s recluse, he’s spared to tellHow God in his wisdom ‘doth all things well.’Of another ship I’m bidden to speak,That proudly bore at her hight lofty peakThe ensign of England—old England’s defence,But doom’d to come here no more to go hence.Dark, dark was the night, and fierce was the galeWhen lightning’s broad flash shewed me her white sail;’Twas near to the land, too near to return,She struck, and her fate too in pity I mourn;A few of her crew, (not many indeed,)By great exertion were saved from the dead;The pilot was one—I heard his degree,For the rescued reclined adjacent to me.Set apart by a vow, a being alone—I sat in my cave to the saved unknown; I wept as I heard their heart-groaning wail—I wept as I heard their heart-rending tale!As they dwelt on the dire cause of their grief,The loss of their ship, the loss of their chief,By disregarding the Pilot's command—The perils he knew to be close at hand.‘O had he attended,’ (the pilot spoke,)‘To me, our Plumper of old English oak’Would now be cleaving the wave of the Bay,Perchance, embracing the fresh water^[2] spray,Or placidly anchor’d—the voyage o’er,With boats alongside to welcome the shore.’Now morning’s red dawn appeared in the sky,And night’s sable garb again was thrown by,And from my abode I counted five men,They descended the rocks and ne’er came again!Not one week had pass’d, when to my surpriseBoats numerous came of different size,Reflection to aid, ended surprise,And thankful I wiped the tears from mine eyes—(’Twas thus that I then did soliloquize.)Ah! here is humanity coming to tryTo rescue the dead from the spot where they lie,To drop a tear o’er the wave-beaten breast,And lay the ‘poor stranger’ once more at rest.From the salt wave redeem England’s brave men—Tho’ ‘sons of the ocean,’ return them againTo the earth's quiet bosom—‘dust unto dust,’Until the last trump shall summon the just;And the dread sea shall likewise restoreThe dead’s scattered bones, to be so no more!Anxious they seemed to my still gazing eye,And I heard a shout that reach’d to the sky, Her gallant commander’s certainly found,So thought I from the loud rapturous sound;And I ardently wished that his brave crewWould all be regained to rest with him too.Each day in succession I saw the same,Boats of all sizes from east and west came;And frequent loud shouts seemed to animateThem all as one—who did there congregate;An eager spectator some days I’d been,When all my fond hopes were blasted one e’en;A guard of foot soldiers, arm’d with firelock,^[3]Accout’red for war approached the rock,The rock of my home—this same where I dwell,And as they came near those words from me fell,(By his words, no doubt, he had the command),“My lads, remember! and now understand,That all specie found you’ll guard for our King!Ne’er mind the dead! ’tis the gold that’s the thing—Much has been found and conveyed to the shore”—They passed along, and I heard him no more.My evening’s devotion at this hour o’erI sadly walked to the wave-beaten shore—And near the soldiers myself did secrete,To mark what should follow from my retreatA person approached quite near to the spot,His words while I live will ne’er be forgotThe broad, setting moon, its latest gleam playedO’er the wave and the rock, and showed me arrayedIn soldier’s dress—one well stricken in years,Who sat unseen near me, then said with tears,“And I am compelled to watch o’er cursed gold—While he is dead near me, I’ll ne’er behold,?O brother! O brother! I’ll ne'er see you more—My dearest brother who’s drown’d near the shore! And, “ne’er mind the dead”! my officer saidSo heartless, unfeeling, that I’m afraid,He’s brave without mercy—nor human woesDisturb his bosom with sorrows throes!Not one has been found of the ship’s brave crew—The “Gold is the thing!” ah! cheering anew—“Duty calls,” said he; and he weeping withdrew.And here, my brother, you may clearly see,That by the coat we cannot judge rightly;Both soldiers they are, but how differentThey are in their word, and in sentiment!Not learning or wealth do at all times givePre-eminence—mark this well while you live.’Tis the ‘poor in heart’ that is ‘rich in faith,’—They are ‘wealthy and wise,’ so Scripture saith—And, note how the Captain and his brave crew,Regardless were left ’neath the sea-wave blue,While the gold and the silver anxiouslyWere sought for there indefatigably!And, a few, purloined from the salt-wave’s breast—What still keeps all but their conscience at rest.And if chance should point them to this, my LAY,It begs to remind of a judgement day.Now, to you I must other things disclose,Of man’s foul deeds, of misery and woes.And of virtuous acts by mortals done,For all are not vicious beneath the sun;Wonder not if I of the City speak,’Though secluded here, the ‘news of the week’Almost weekly comes to my unseen ears—What the Hermit don’t see, yet the Hermit hears.You have heard of (perchance seen,) the fires there,Perchance mingled with the Citizens whereAll seemed to engage with heart and with handTo save the City—the stay of this land.Even then the vile wretch—incendiary’s tool, Artfully taught in iniquity’s school,Was the first to quench, apparently—The destruction commenced for robbery;Perchance his agents, deep learn’d in fraud’s lore,Like hawks for their victims hovering o’er—To pounce on their prey—with villanous eyesWould watch for the signal, then seize the prize.To obviate this, the Hermit tells theeLet a place of deposit provided be,A guard stationed there of trust-worthy men,Affording protection ’till the owners againFrom it there, (tho’ promiscuously thrown.)Will ascertain and recover their own.And all found taking a different wayBy police prevented from going ’stray,Will give their burden to a ‘guard at the door,’And thus by old precept—‘make all things sure.”Thus spake the Hermit, and then he confess’d—That “present fatigue required him to rest;”A short time elapsed and then he began—“It grieves me to speak of man’s treachery to man,But yet, it is needful to bring to view,What may prove to be a beacon to you,And others likewise may steer from the stream—Themselves and their all again to redeem.Here, as I’ve stood upon this rock-bound shore,I’ve heard the tale of woe, time o’er and o’er—The passing vessel would the tale repeat,I’d weeping hear it as mine ears ’twould greet—How manhood’s strength, aye, and how youthful bloomAlike destroy’d, were cast into the tomb!The weeping mother of her son bereft,And, strange! her babe a heartless mother left!^[4] An unwean’d babe, fling to its father’s armsAnother too, possessing prattling charms;Nor aged mother, nor kind husband’s love,Nor lovely babes sufficient ties do prove—To keep the woman in her quiet home,Ah! no, she chose a vagrant’s life to roam!Alas! this tale’s no fiction—’tis too true,It’s known to many, mayhap it is to you;O may fair woman from such warning take,And ne’er the ‘path of duty’ e’er forsake—’Tis virtue’s star propriety directs,Look to that star, ’tis that which vice detects.And, furthermore, my still attentive friend,I must explain what brings untimely endOn manhood’s strength, aye, and on youthful bloom—What drags them wretched victims to the tomb.Go to the ‘grog shop’s door,’ and there you’ll findA man to knowledge and to reason blind;Not always so—his Maker largely gaveHim of those gifts, but ah! to rum a slave,He drinks his death, and finds a drunkard’s grave!Just like Socrates with the ‘hemlock’s juice,’He ‘takes the cup’ tho’ death is in its use!Not like Socrates does the drunkard die—‘Delirium tremens’ his philosophy.”“Thou sage old man, I’d know if we can’t passWith friends of ours a social single glass?”The sage old man with intellectual eyeLooked full on me and made me this reply—“One glass, and then the sixth will come in haste,The only remedy that is—is not to taste.”I bowed my head, my heart did acquiesce,He said “be sure you shun the man who’d pressYou strenuously to drink, he’s not thy friendTho’ seeming so, and such he’ll prove in end.Another evil spreads its baneful wings From Brunswick’s shore to where ‘old Erin’ singsHer disaffected strains! (my wounds won’t healUntil the balsam’s given—repeal! repeal!)”This evil’s sore, and ships of lofty sailOn the Atlantic’s wave echoes its wail;Poor emigrants deluded from their homeAre greeted—‘Paupers! why hither do you come?Go choose your road, go, choose it east or west—No succour here, nor aught to give you rest.’The ‘morning's dawn’ and ‘evening’s shade’ may seeThose homeless wanderers most wretchedlyPlodding along—unpitied and forlorn,While marriage pledges on their backs are borne,With scarce a garment on but’s rent or torn!”The Hermit’s utterance failed, he could not speakUntil he wept awhile, and wiped his cheek.He then resumed, and I affected heardAnd treasured up his every word—“There are my friend, tho’ strange it may appear,Those who suffer thus almost every yearFrom ‘Erin’s Isle,’ deluded o’er the waves,Sometimes indeed provided watery graves,Or brought in, (all but fetters,) worse than slaves!There’s much connected with this wretched trade,But I’m forbid, (for so the spirit said.)To speak the rest; the subject now must changeTo something’s less of woe, but not less strange.Remote from man—remote from politics,No stigma on your laws I can affix;But yet defects are manifestly known,And such as must be totally o’erthrown;The patching trade will but entail a curse,New patches on old garments make them worse.And first your ‘education act’ demandsA probing from disinterested hands,For, if not interested—prepossess'd Are some for some, and this must be confess’d,Is’t fair, is’t just, the teacher who maintainsA family should reap no other gainsThan a young female from a sitting room,More fitting for a spinning wheel or loom?Training, statute labour, taxes, all are paidBy the male teacher, but exempt the maidWho sips her tea at home, and when at schoolCan teach the misses curtseying by rule.The spelling book’s her teaching’s minus part,The ‘sampler’ is the ‘sample’ of her art;I cannot frame your laws, but, this I say,Forty pounds ’twixt the two, I would this wayAt once divide, and let it changeless be—Fifteen the miss—twenty-five the master’s salary.Perhaps when I am gone, some friend of rightWill urge it home and bring it to the light.Again my subject changes, for I findA something else impress’d upon my mind.Have you not seen a spider’s web catch flies?Perchance a butterfly now proves a prize;The gilded thing is sure a tempting bait,Once caught, the spider issues forth elateAnd fastens on it with relentless hold,So with the person that possesses gold,If once he’s caught within the lawyer’s net,He there may writhe—but out he cannot getUntil, as ’tis in scripture truly said,By him the very utmost farthing’s paid;The poor man, like the despicable fly,Receives a bite or two, then’s left to die,Or grated in, a prey to want and cold,Makes restitution there for want of gold!Tis true indeed, that, ’tis not always so—There are exceptions to be found below,Be careful then to find and mark the man Who does within his sphere the best he can,That will not swindling take, nor meanly act,Nor pledge his word, and then his word retract;Scorning to wrong, or in the least deceiveSuch men as those with open arms receive.There’s some I know who smile but to betray,And set their traps to catch you on their wayWith fair prolific words to lead astray—Of such be careful and aware alway.Yet, the profession’s honourably good,Tho’ oft disgraced by some of knavish blood;No ‘Court of Chancery’ in their guilty breast,They live and die unpitied and unblest!Not so the man who pleads for the distrest,He’s valued here and Heaven gives him rest.I know of one deep skill’d in knavery,His name is * * *, to tell is forbidden me—He lives where ‘mills’ to him proximate be.Not like the ‘miller’ who takes part for toll,Whate’er you leave with him he takes the whole;His ‘light complexion’ marks no deeds of light,His deeds, dark as the darkest shades of night.Again my subject changes to the breathThat far exceeds a pestilential death!’Tis the proud scoffer of religion’s ways,And those who weekly meet on sabbath days,God’s mercies to recount, and sing his praise.And when my friend from here that you do go,You’ll find this man six leagues from Point Lepreaux;No consort’s love his daily comforts spread,He eats alone a thankless Deist’s bread.Sometimes a rustic youth does seek his door,And lays his ‘bag of yarn’ upon the floor—The yarn and warp consigned unto his care,He soon assails the youth concerning pray’r;The christian’s creed to his astonish’d ears Receives abuse—indignant now he hears;But, ere he goes, his cherish’d faith gives way,Compunction or despair is his another day—By his delusive reasoning led astray,Then, if it must be, let the parent goAnd save the child from all a Deist’s woe;But better far another ‘loom’ go seekThan go where scriptures foe such words do speak.Again my tale does change, and I must speakOf one that’s pious once a week;The sure criterion by which to knowThe self-made saint from other folks below,Six days her neighbours does defame, condemn,The seventh rise to lecturize the men,Small faults to which mankind is ever prone,Are magnified. ten-fold with whinish drone,And every sect is wrong but her’s alone.Visions and dreams form basis for her faithThe superstructure raised—in holy wrathShe quotes the ‘gospel of good news’ in ire,And scares the timid with her tale of fire!Not like the fire which Sampson tied, betweenPoor foxes’ tails, but such as ne’er was seenOn earth! the sabbath past, her pietyIs changed to scandal—her name’s hypocrisy!Although not pleasant, ’tis a needful taskTo drag her to the light, and there unmaskThe aged dame, that all may plainly seeA vile heart ’neath a face of sanctity.When blind zeal from plain truths thus derogates,And the ‘christian church’ in wrath execrates,Straying far from a good matron’s station,Preaching life to some—to others sure damnation!Let then the bible still your pilot be,To guide you from the sea of misery.The ‘Mælstroom’ of despair in which have fell Too many victims—I have known some well,But, they are gone, and others yet will be,I fear, engulphed in the calamity;Fanatic’s tongues like ‘poisonous adder’s hiss,’Smile to betray, to kill, like Judas, kiss.Beware O youth! the vortex is at hand,Then still be sure to keep a self-command;The prating creature of delusion’s schoolYou’ll then with pity see to be a fool.As such regard her, then you need not go ’stray,But still keep on the true—the ‘good old way,’Your exit peace, your life an endless day.Another subject now could occupyMy time indeed, it is theology,A most momentuous subject, ‘sacred theme,’No visionary, wild, delusive dream.O dear religion! which alone impartsSubstantial joys to men of virtuous hearts:Consoling boon, be ever with this friendOf mine, comfort and shield him to the end.”So spake the Hermit, and again he said,“Have you not in the holy scriptures readThat there are those commissioned to proclaimSalvation to mankind thro’ Jesus’ name;And all so vile that would not credit those,Would disregard a saint if one aroseFrom the dark grave! so tell mankindTo seek a gospel guide of pious mind,And cherish him, the preacher wise and goodWho feeds your souls with Heaven’s refreshing food.Have you not felt delighted as you've heardThe sacred sound and treasured every word?When sorrow chafes, then peaceful, quiet, feelAnd own that ‘he who wounds, alone can heal;’The perturbed spirit calm, the anguished mindRelieve, and be, tho’ sore chastised, resign’d. Have you not seen a weeping husband's woes?His bosom heaving with deep sorrow's throes,His lifeless consort ’neath the sable pall,Mourn’d for by him, lamented too, by all?The ‘house of God’ is entered, and ’tis thereThe preacher loves to offer up his prayer.The ‘balm of Gilead’ is in scripture found,And he applies it to the mourner’s wound;The preacher wipes his eyes and then proceedsTo prove that death’s the fruit of man’s misdeeds;And all must die and leave this earthly sphere,(There is a home of joys more pure and clear,)This mortal part in faith resign to clayTo rise immortal on some future day.And parted friends will there no parting know,But walk the ‘golden streets’ where death nor woeCan e’er approach; but holy, happy blissThat’s for the good; with comfort such as thisThe preacher heals the husband’s wounds and sendsHim home relieved among his faithful friends.And now my friend I soon will take my leaveOf earth and you, but do not for me grieve;I’m going home, my father wills it so,Take this, ’tis all I have to give below;Its colour, emblematic of the wearOf angels, will remind you that ’tis thereI am, (be faithful to your sacred trust.)There is a place, they call it Pennfield, friend,And one lives there to whom I wish to sendThe ‘manuscript’ traced by this aged hand,And much it does contain of Brunswick’s land.What, tho’ this breath of mine must it conceal,The Hermit's manuscript will all reveal;Tell him to send it soon to every youth,That it may be, (what ‘Boaz’ was to ‘Ruth,’)A cherished friend, to see him lose no tine, One part is prose, the other part is rhyme.My work’s now done, yours is now to do,I’m going home, my brother man adieu.”He “stretched his hand and gave the parting sign”And died, such death as his I pray be mine.

 

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1. This quotation, (to the reader, who is acquainted with the Geography of Ireland,) will be found to be equally applicable to Erin, as to Caledonia.
2. Alluding to the fresh water from St. John harbour, which meets the salt water a short distance outside of Partridge Island.
3. A term used by the soldier for musket.
4. A lamentable fact which occurred lately, and, but a few miles from the author’s residence.