Jule’s Letter. Poem by Arthur Weir

Ma Chere’
Since the morning we parted
On the slippery docks of Rochelle,
I have wandered, well nigh broken-hearted,
Through many a tree-shadowed dell:
I've hunted the otter and beaver,
Have tracked the brown bear and the deer,
And have lain almost dying with fever,
While not a companion was near.

I've toiled in the fierce heat of summer
Under skies like a great dome of gold,
And have tramped, growing number and number,
In winter through snowstorm and cold.
Yet the love in my heart was far hotter,
The fear of my soul far more chill,
As my thoughts crossed the wild waste of water
To your little home on the hill.

But now Father Time in a measure
Has reconciled me to my fate,
For I know he will bring my dear treasure
Back into my arms soon or late.
And, besides, every evening, when, weary,
I lie on my soft couch of pine,
Sleep wafts me again to my dearie,
And your heart once more beats against mine.

You never have heard of such doings
As those that are going on here;
We've nothing but weddings and wooings
From dawn till the stars reappear.
For the king, gracious monarch, a vessel
Has sent, bearing widows and maids
Within our rough bosoms to nestle,
And make us a home in the glades.

They are tall and short, ugly and pretty,
There are blondes and brunettes by the score:
Some silent and dull, others witty,
And made for mankind to adore.
Some round as an apple, some slender--
In fact--so he be not in haste--
Any man with a heart at all tender
Can pick out a wife to his taste.

Now, darling, don't pout and grow jealous,
I still am a bachelor free,
In spite of the governor's zealous
And extra-judicial decree,
Commanding all men to be married
In less than two weeks from this date,
And promising all who have tarried
Shall feel the full strength of his hate:

In spite of his maddening order,
That none in the country may trade
With the tribes on our side of the border,
Who is not a benedict staid;
In spite of a clause, far the sorest,
That none past his twentieth year,
And single, shall enter the forest
On any pretext whatsoe'er.

Now, you know I was ever a rover,
Half stifled by cities or towns,
Of nature--and you--a warm lover,
Wooing both in despite of your frowns,
So you well may imagine my sorrow
When fettered and threatened like this--
Oh! Marie, dear, pack up to-morrow,
And bring me back freedom and bliss.

If you do not, who knows but some morning
I'll waken and find a decree
Has been passed, that, without any warning,
Has wedded some woman to me?
Oh! Marie, chère Marie, have pity;
You only my woes can assuage;
I'm confined, till I wed, to the city,
And feel like a bird in a cage.

Then come, nor give heed to the billows
That tumble between you and Jules.
I know a sweet spot where lithe willows
Bend over a silvery pool,
And there we will dwell, dear, defying
Misfortune to tear us apart.
My darling, come to me, I'm dying
To press you again to my heart.