Poetry Archives

From Old France once sailed a vessel,
Bearing hearts that came to nestle
In Acadia’s breast and wrestle
  With its Winters cold.
Priests and ministers it bore,
Who had sought that desert shore,
Filled with ardor to restore
  Lost sheep to the fold.

Yet though on such errand wending,
They debated without ending,
Each his cherished faith defending
  Morning, noon and night.
Never on the balmy air
Heavenward rose united prayer,
Stout Champlain was in despair
  At the godless sight.

Late and early they debated,
Never ceasing, never sated,
Till the very sailors hated
  Them and their debates.
Not at dinner were they able,
Even, to forego their Babel,
But, disputing, smote the table
  Till they jarred the plates.

Tossed about by the gigantic
Billows of the wild Atlantic,
Still they argued, until, frantic
  With religious zeal,
Tonsured priests and Huguenots
From discussions came to blows,
Sieur de Monts had no repose
  From their fierce appeal.

Oft the minister came crying,
How, while he had been replying
To the cure and denying
  Something he had said,
That the latter fell on him
And, with more than priestly vim,
Beat him, body, head and limb—
  Beat him till he fled.

Days passed by, and then one morning,
While the sunbeams were adorning
Sea and sky, the lookout’s warning
  Echoed from the mast;
And, before the close of day,
Safe the little vessel lay,
Anchored in a sheltered bay:
  Land was reached at last.

But, within their cabins lying,
Priest and Minister were dying,
To their future haven nighing,
  Ere the dawn they died,
And within the forest shade
Soon a narrow grave was made,
Where the two were gently laid,
  Sleeping side by side.

That same evening, as they rested
Round the fire, the sailors jested
Of the dead, how they contested
  All across the sea,
And a sailor, laughing said:
“Let us hope the reverend dead
Yonder in their narrow bed
  Manage to agree.”