THE PRIEST AND THE MINISTER.

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 curé 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.”