Louis Riel.
By Thomas Frederick Young
Misguided man, thy turbid life
This day in shameful death shall close,
And thou shalt ne'er behold the sun,
That in thy sight, this morn, arose.
The moon, which yestere'en so clear,
Shone thro' thy cell's small window pane -
No more shalt thou behold its light,
Or see its chasten'd rays, again.
No more thy voice, 'mong savage hordes,
Shall sound, with baneful, potent spell,
To make them rise with savage force,
And 'gainst their country's laws, rebel.
And thou art calm in trustful hope,
And conscience gives thee little pain,
'Tis strange, but man's a myst'ry deep,
Unsolv'd in finite thought's domain.
The scaffold's there, and thou art firm;
Thou walkest forth upon it now;
The thoughts within thy breast are hid,
But calm and peaceful is thy brow.
The man of God, thy faithful friend
Of brighter days, and happier years,
Upon thy cheek, with holy lips,
A kiss imprints, 'mid blinding tears.
The priest and thou art praying now,
For thy poor soul, before 'tis gone,
When suddenly, with crashing force,
The door descends - the bolt is drawn.
And what can be the pray'r of those,
Who learn'd with awe thy dreadful death?
It is that thou God's mercy found,
Before thou yielded up thy breath.
It is that thou that mercy found,
Which thou to others never gave;
That thy rebellious, restless soul,
A pardon found, beyond the grave.
Man's justice had to take its course,
And tie the fatal hempen knot,
For vengeance cried from out the ground,
Where lay the blood of murder'd Scott.
But who shall say e'en such a cry
Did drown the voice of pard'ning love,
Which comes to sins of deepest dye,
From Him who died, but reigns above?