Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.

S. Frances Harrison

Chateau Papineau

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!

Within this charméd 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 charméd 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 charméd 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 charméd cool retreat,

The Old World and the New World meet.

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 glamor 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.

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!

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.