The Chambly Rapid

There's a spirit in the rapid, calling, calling through the night,

There's a gleam upon the water, burning pale and burning bright.

Woe to him who hears the calling! Woe to him who sees the light!

My son and I had left St. Jean,

Our paddles dipping in the blue,

And many miles to north had gone

Along the silent Richelieu;

The night came down, we thought of rest;

A threatening cloud hung in the west.

No warning sound the river made

Save for the rapid's muffled roar,

As‘ neath the pine-trees’ deepening shade

We camped upon that luckless shore;

No sound the night-wind bore to me

Save one weird echo from Chambly.

The night grew dark and darker still,

The pale-faced moon was hid from sight,

When o'er the waters black and chill

We saw a ghastly, gleaming light,— -

A fitful fire, pale and blue,

That burned my inmost spirit through.

And like some baleful gleaming eye

It shone beneath night's heavy pall;

Then high above the loon's lone cry

Afar we heard the spirit call;

It called us from the other shore.

Ah, Jean will never hear it more!

I could not seize or hold him back,

For while the light burned pale and blue,

A heavy hand from out the black

Held me beside my own canoe,

And ere I stirred, the other barque

Had silent sped into the dark.

Adown the river's drifting tide

To where the wild, mad rapids run,

Past pine-trees towering on each side

His frail canoe had drifted on;

He did not look to left or right

But gazed upon that hell-born light.

And ever swifter with the flow

He drifted where the rapids play,

His eyes still on that awful glow;

Ah, God! my life seemed snatched away!

I saw a gleam far up the sky

And heard the echo of a cry.

There's a spirit in the rapid, calling, calling through the night,

There's a gleam upon the water, burning pale and burning bright.

Woe to him who hears the calling! Woe to him who sees the light!