SCENE 4--_Daybreak on the_ 23_rd June_, 1813.

_The porch of_ Mr. Secord's _farmhouse. A garden path, with a

gate that opens on to the high road from Newark to Twelve-Mile

Creek_.

_Enter_ JAMES SECORD _and his wife_.

_Mr. Secord_. Heaven speed thee, then, dear wife. I'll try to bear

The dreadful pangs of helplessness and dread

With calm demeanour, if a bursting heart.

_Mrs. Secord_. Then will you taste a woman's common lot

In times of strait, while I essay man's role

Of fierce activity. We will compare

When I return. Now, fare-thee-well, my husband.

(_Fearful of being observed, they part without an embrace_. Mrs.

Secord _walks down the garden slowly, and gathers a few clove pinks; a

the gate she stops as though the latch were troublesome, raises the

flowers to her lips, and makes a slight salute to her husband, who yet

stands within the porch watching her. She then rapidly pursues her way,

but soon encounters an American sentry, whom she essays to pass with a

nod and a smile: the man prevents her by bringing his musket to the

charge, and challenging_.)

_Mrs. Secord_. Why do you stop me?

_Sentry_. Where is your pass?

You know that none may take the road without one.

_Mrs. Secord_. But surely I may go to milk my cow,

Yonder she is.

[_A cow is seen in the clearing_.

She's wandered in the night.

I'll drive her back again, poor thing.

She likes new pasture best, as well she may.

_Sentry_. Keep you your kine at home, you've land enough.

_Mrs. Secord_. Why, that's our land, and those our barns and sheds.

_Sentry_. Well, pass!

[_He suddenly observes the flowers_.

But where's your milking pail?

I guess the bunch of flowers is for the cow.

_Mrs. Secord_ (_gently_). You are too rough! The pinks weep

dewy tears

Upon my hand to chide you. There, take them;

[_She offers him the flowers_.

And let their fragrance teach you courtesy,

At least to women. You can watch me.

_Sentry_. Madam, suspicion blunts politeness. Pass.

I'll take your flowers, and thank you, too;

'Tis long since that I saw their fellows in

The old folks' garden.

(Mrs. Secord _crosses the road, takes a rail out of the fence, which

she replaces after having passed into the clearing, and proceeds to the

barn, whence she brings an old pail, luckily left there, and approaches

the cow_.)

_Mrs. Secord_ (_aside_). Could I but get her out of sight, I'd drive

The creature round the other way, and go

My own. Pray Heaven the sentry watch me not

Too closely; his manner roused my fears.

[_She waves her hand at the cow, which moves on_.

Co' boss! co' boss. Sh! Haste thee, poor cow;

Fly from me! though never didst thou yet:

Nor should'st do now, but for the stake I play.

[_Both disappear in the bush_.

_Sentry_ (_apostrophising the disappearing "enemy"_). Well,

mistress, were you gentle as your face,

The creature wouldn't run you such a race.

It serves you right! The cows my Anna milks,

Come at her call, like chickens. O, sweet voice,

When shall I hear you next? Even as I pace

With measured step this hot and dusty road,

The soft June breezes take your tones, and call,

"Come, Henry, come." Would that I could!

Would I had never joined!

But my hot blood o'ermastered my cool sense,

Nor let me see that always is not bought

Honour by arms, but often dire disgrace.

For so it is, as now I clearly see,

We let the animal within remain

Unbroke, till neither gyve nor gear will serve

To steady him, only a knock-down blow.

Had I, and others, too, within the ranks,

Haltered our coltish blood, we should have found

That hate to England, not our country's name

And weal, impelled mad Madison upon this war;

And shut the mouths of thousand higher men

Than he.

It is a lesson may I learn

So as to ne'er forget, that in the heat of words

Sparks oft are struck that should be straightway quenched

In cool reflection; not enlarged and fed

With passionate tinder, till a flame is blown

That reaches past our bonds, and leaves behind

Black, sullen stumps where once the green trees grew.

If honour's what we want, there's room enough

For that, and wild adventure, too, in the West,

At half the cost of war, in opening up

A road shall reach the great Pacific.

(_A step_). Ha! Who goes there?

[_Exit_.

* * * * *

Laura Secord, the heroine of 1812: A Drama; and Other Poems · 第 4 / 7 章