The fogs have lifted from the wharves, the harbour's course is clear,
And groups of men with eager eyes crowd each projecting pier;
Some climb the grassy slope that lies above the wooden town,
Some from the rambling roofs that shade the unpaved streets look down,

And all are gazing oceanward beyond the islands green,
Where, specks of white against the blue, a hundred sail are seen;
The fishermen in suburbs lone, from cabins by the shore
Look out in fear lest France has come to claim the land once more.

A hundred sail, and on they move across the harbour bar,
And every watcher strains his eyes to see what sort they are, —
But as the squadron closer comes fear changes to surprise,
For at the mast of every ship the flag of England flies.

" The Tory fleet! " the word goes round, the " fleet from Boston Bay!
What news, good friends of Howe's command, bring you this bleak March day?
Have you o'ercome the rebel mob and shown them England's might?
And shall we make great bonfires blaze about the town to-night? "

" No, friendly Sirs of Halifax, give us a pitying hand,
We come as routed troops, and not as men in proud command,
The raw recruits have more than matched our veteran force, and we
Have given the siege of Boston up and brought our ships to sea. "

And now the vessels come to port, and Howe himself is seen
Among red-tunicked officers of land troops and marine,
And sailors, soon, with rolling gait, and soldiers trim and neat,
March up the wharves that fringe the town, and fill each marrow street.

At last a myriad canvas tents are pitched on the Parade,
'Neath which, below the silent stars, a myriad heads are laid,
For Howe has brought, beside the troops, from the long siege away,
The gentry of the capital of Massachusetts Bay.

What change for men who long have housed in city mansions fair,
What grief to find themselves at once of all their goods stripped bare;
But O the gentle women reared in luxury and pride,
And O the homesick little ones, that all the voyage have cried!

From Tremont, Milk, and Marlborough Streets these wanderers have fled,
From stately homes near Beacon hill, closed suddenly in dread,
From Cambridge old, and Roxbury, and Milton, here they meet,
This multitude compelled to ask protection of the fleet.

The Brattles and the Brinleys and the Olivers are here,
The Gores and Greens and Sewalls, Belcher, Caner, and Lechmere,
The Royals and the Vassalls — can it be such men as they
Have been driven to hopeless exile from their homes on Boston Bay?

Aye, the mansions are all empty near the base of Beacon Hill,
Or enshrine plebeian strangers, and the enemy at will
In the Province House and churches everlastingly reviles
The haughty Tory gentry and their prophet, Mather Byles.

From what superior walks of life these courtly men have come,
In council room, at bench or bar, and in the incessant hum
Of Boston's richest trade-marts they have long been used to rule,
Their minds and manners moulded in the most punctilious school.

In powdered wigs and waistcoats fine and swords that dangled free
They exercised a princely sort of hospitality,
Their homes with heavy silken stuffs and orient woods were fair,
And spicy perfumes of the east lent sweetness to the air.

These ladies, too, the mistresses of every art refined,
With elegance of form and rarer elegance of mind,
Their petticoats of rich brocade, their jewels and point lace
Scarce emphasized their breeding high or added to their grace.

No wonder, then, these exiles feel the present but a dream
That certainly will vanish, as goes by the turbid stream;
But the past will never come again, whate'er their fate may prove,
They have said good bye forever to the homes and haunts they love.

The future of these gentlefolk encamped beside the sea,
Can oracle or sibyl strange divine what it shall be?
Where shall these high-born women find homes fit their charms to hold?
Not surely in this little town less than three decades old.

Yes, some of them in Halifax shall tarry till they die,
The men patrician-souled and proud as a nobility,
The women gracious-mannered, yet exclusive as of yore,
With aversion for republics, loving England more and more.

Scant praise received these Loyalists from those they left behind,
Perhaps their minds were prejudiced, perhaps their eyes were blind,
But, right or wrong, they suffered, and to-day men yield the claim
That not alone the " Patriots " deserved the patriot name.