_Mrs. Secord_ (_looking in the direction of her home_). Gone!
Gone! Quite out of sight! Farewell, my home,
Casket that holds my jewels! If no more
My happy eyes rest on thy lowly roof,
If never more my ears drink in the sounds
Of sweeter music, in your loving tones,
My darlings, than e'er was drawn from harp
The best attuned, by wandering Aeolus,
Then let my memory, like some fond relic laid
In musk and lavender, softly exhale
A thousand tender thoughts to soothe and bless;
And let my love hide in your heart of hearts,
And with ethereal touch control your lives,
Till in that better home we meet again.
(_She covers her face with her hands, and weeps unrestrainedly for a
few seconds, then recovers herself, and raises her hands in prayer_.)
Guard them and me, O Heaven.
[_She resumes her journey, but still gazes In the direction of the
Heights_.
And Brock! McDonnell! Dennis!
All ye hero band, who fell on yonder Heights!
If I should fall, give me a place among ye,
And a name will be my children's pride,
For all--my all--I risk, as ye, to save
My country.
[_Exit_.
ACT II.
SCENE I.--_The great kitchen at St. David's Mill. Breakfast-time_.
_At the board are seated the_ Widow Stephen Secord, Sergeant George
Mosier, _and little_ Tom. Babette _is waiting at table_.
_Widow_. 'Tis pitiful to see one's land go waste
For want of labour, and the summer days,
So rich in blessing, spend their fruitful force
On barren furrows. And then to think
That over both the Provinces it is the same,--
No men to till the land, because the war
Needs every one. God knows how we shall feed
Next year: small crop, small grist,--a double loss
To me. The times are anxious.
(_To Sergeant Mosier_.) Have you news?
_Sergeant_. Not much, ma'am, all is pretty quiet still
Since Harvey struck them dumb at Stony Creek.
Along the Lake bold Yeo holds them fast,
And, Eric-way, Bisshopp and Evans back him.
Thus stand we now; but Proctor's all too slow.
O had we Brock again, bold, wise, and prompt,
That foreign rag that floats o'er Newark's spires
Would soon go down, and England's ensign up.
_Widow_. Ah, was he not a man! and yet so sweet,
So courteous, and so gentle.
_Babette_. _Ah, oui, madame_.
So kind! not one rough word he ever had,
The _General_, but bow so low, "_Merci, Babette_,"
For glass of milk, _et petit chose comme ca_.
Ah, long ago it must be he was French:
Some _grand seigneur, sans doute_, in Guernsey then.
Ah the brave man, madame, _ce hero la!_
_Widow_. Yes, brave indeed, Babette, but English, English.
Oh, bravery, good girl, is born of noble hearts,
And calls the world its country, and its sex
Humanity.
_Babette_. Madame?
_Widow_. You do not understand me, not; but you
Were very brave and noble-hearted when
You faced the wolf that scented the young lambs.
_Babette_. _Brave! moi!_ Madame is kind to say it so.
But bravery of women--what is that
To bravery of man?
_Tom_. An' that's just what I said to Hatty, mother,
When she declared that Aunty Laura was
As brave as soldiers, 'cause she went an' fetched
Poor Uncle James from off the battlefield.
After the fight was over. That wasn't much!
_Widow_. You're but an ignorant little boy, my son,
But might be wiser were you not so pert.
_Sergeant_. I heard not that before, ma'am.
_Widow_. Did you not?
'Tis very true. Upon that dreadful day,
After Brock fell, and in the second fight,
When with the Lincoln men and Forty-first
Sheaffe led the attack, poor Captain Secord dropped,
Shot, leg and shoulder, and bleeding there he lay,
With numbers more, when evening fell; for means
Were small to deal with wounded men, and all,
Soldiers and citizens, were spent and worn
With cruel trials. So when she learned he lay
Among the wounded, his young wife took up
A lantern in her hand, and searched the field--
Whence sobs and groans and cries rose up to heaven
And paled the tearful stars--until she found
The man she loved, not sure that life remained.
Then binding him as best she might, she bore,
With some kind aid, the fainting body home,--
If home it could be called where rabid hate
Had spent its lawless rage in deeds of spite;
Where walls and roof were torn with many balls,
And shelter scarce was found.
That very night,
Distrustful lest the foe, repulsed and wild,
Should launch again his heavier forces o'er
The flood, she moved her terror-stricken girls--
Four tender creatures--and her infant boy,
Her wounded husband and her two young slaves,
'Neath cover of thick darkness to the farm,
A mile beyond: a feat even for a man.
And then she set her woman's wit and love
To the long task of nursing back to health
Her husband, much exhaust through loss of blood,
and all the angry heat of gunshot wounds.
But James will never be himself again
Despite her care.
_Sergeant_. 'Twas well and bravely done.
Yet oft I think the women of these days
Degenerate to those I knew in youth.
_Widow_. You're hasty, Sergeant, already hath this war
Shown many a young and delicate woman
A very hero for--her hero's sake;
Nay, more, for others'. She, our neighbour there
At Queenston, who when our troops stood still,
Weary and breathless, took her young babe,
Her husband under arms among the rest,
And cooked and carried for them on the field:
Was she not one in whom the heroic blood
Ran thick and strong as e'er in times gone by?
O Canada, thy soil is broadcast strown
With noble deeds: a plague on him, I say,
Who follows with worse seed!
(_She rises and prepares for making pies_. Babette _clears off the
table, and_ Sergeant George _smokes his pipe, sitting close to the
open chimney, now filled with fresh branches of spruce and cedar_.)
_Sergeant_. Well, mistress, p'rhaps you're right; old folks aye think
Old times the best; but now your words recall
The name of one, the bravest of her sex,
So far as e'er I saw, save, p'rhaps, the Baroness.
Tender of frame, most gentle, softly raised,
And young, the Lady Harriet Acland shared,
With other dames whose husbands held commands,
The rough campaign of 'Seventy-six.
But her lot fell so heavy, and withal
She showed such spirit, cheerfulness, and love,
Her name became a watchword in the ranks.
_Widow_. And what about her, Sergeant?
_Sergeant_. Well, mistress, as you ask I'll tell the tale:
She was the wife of Major John Dyke-Acland,
An officer of Grenadiers, then joined
To Highland Frazer's arm of Burgoyne's troops.
At Chamblee he was wounded. Leaving the Fort,
His wife crossed lake and land, by means so rough
As tried the strength of men, to nurse him.
Recovered; next he fought Ticonderoga,
And there was badly wounded. Lake Champlain
She traversed to his aid in just a batteau.
No sooner was he better, than again
He joined his men, always the first to move,
And so alert their situation was,
That all slept in their clothes. In such a time
The Major's tent took fire, and he, that night,
But for a sergeant's care, who dragged him out,
Had lost his life. Twice saved he was;
For thinking that his wife still lay within,
Burning to death, he broke away,
And plunged into the fiery mass. But she,
Scarce half awake, had crept from out the tent,
And gained her feet in time to see him rush
In search of her--a shuddering sight to one
Loving and loved so well. But luckily,
Both then were saved. She also shared the march
That followed up the foe, action impending
At every step; and when the fight began,
Though sheltered somewhat, heard all the din,
The roar of guns, and bursting shells, and saw
The hellish fire belch forth, knowing the while
Her husband foremost in the dreadful fray.
Nay, more; her hut was all the shelter given
To dress the wounded first; so her kind eyes
Were forced to witness sights of ghastly sort,
Such as turn surgeons faint; nor she alone,
Three other ladies shared her anxious care:
But she was spared the grief they knew too soon,
Her husband being safe.
But when Burgoyne
At Saratoga lost the bloody day,
The Major came not back--a prisoner he,
And desperate wounded. After anxiety
So stringent and prolonged, it seemed too much
To hope the lady could support such sting
And depth of woe, yet drooped she not; but rose
And prayed of Burgoyne, should his plans allow,
To let her pass into the hostile camp,
There to beseech for leave to tend her husband.
Full pitifully Burgoyne granted her
The boon she asked, though loath to let her go;
For she had passed hours in the drenching rain,
Sleepless and hungry; nor had he e'en a cup
Of grateful wine to offer. He knew
Her danger, too, as she did,--that she might fall
In cruel hands; or, in the dead of night
Approaching to the lines, be fired on.
Yet yielding to her prayer, he let her go,
Giving her all he could, letters to Gates,
And for her use an open boat.
Thus she set forth, with Chaplain Brudenell
For escort, her maid, and the poor Major's man--
Thus was she rowed adown the darkling stream.
Night fell before they reached the enemy's posts,
And all in vain they raised the flag of truce,
The sentry would not even let them land,
But kept them there, all in the dark and cold,
Threatening to fire upon them if they stirred
Before the break of day. Poor lady! Sad
Were her forebodings through those darksome hours,
And wearily her soft maternal frame
Bore such great strain. But as the dark
Grows thickest ere the light appears, so she
Found better treatment when the morning broke.
With manly courtesy, proud Gates allowed
Her wifely claim, and gave her all she asked.
_Widow_. Could he do less! Yes, Sergeant, I'll allow
Old times show tender women bold and brave
For those they love, and 'twill be ever so.
And yet I hold that woman braver still
Who sacrifices all she loves to serve
The public weal.
_Sergeant_. And was there ever one?
_Widow_. Oh, yes--
_Enter_ MRS. SECORD.
Why, Laura! Now you're just too late
To have your breakfast with us. But sit down.
(_She calls_.) Babette! Babette!
_Enter_ BABETTE.
Haste, girl, and make fresh tea,
Boil a new egg, and fry a bit of ham,
And bring a batch-cake from the oven; they're done
By this.
[_Exit_ BABETTE.
(_To Mrs. Secord_.) Take off your things, my dear;
You've come to stay a day or two with Charles,
Of course. He'll be awake just now. He's weak,
But better. How got you leave to come?
[SERGEANT GEORGE _is leaving the kitchen_.
Stay, Sergeant, you should know James Secord's wife,
Poor Charles's sister.
(_To Mrs. Secord_.) Laura, this is a friend
You've heard us speak of, Sergeant George Mosier,
My father's crony, and poor Stephen's, too.
_Mrs. Secord (curtesying)_. I'm glad to meet you, sir.
_Sergeant (bowing low)_. Your servant, madam,
I hope your gallant husband is recovered.
_Mrs. Secord_. I thank you, sir, his wound, but not his strength,
And still his arm is crippled.
_Sergeant_. A badge of honour, madam, like to mine,
[_He points to his empty sleeve_.
_Enter_ BABETTE _with tray_.
[_Exit_ SERGEANT GEORGE.
_Widow_. That's right, girl, set it here. (_To Mrs. Secord_.)
Come eat a bit.
That ham is very nice, 'tis Gloucester fed,
And cured-malt-coombs, you know, so very sweet.
(_To Babette_.) Mind thou the oven, lass, I've pies to bake,
And then a brisket.
[_Exit_ BABETTE.
(_To Mrs. Secord_.) I thought you fast
Within the lines: how got you leave to come?
_Mrs. Secord_. I got no leave; three several sentries I,
With words of guile, have passed, and still I fear
My ultimate success. 'Tis not to see
Poor Charles I came, but to go further on
To Beaver Dam, and warn Fitzgibbon there
Of a foul plot to take him by surprise
This very night. We found it out last eve,
But in his state poor James was helpless,
So I go instead.
_Widow_. You go to Beaver Dam! Nineteen long miles
On hot and dusty roads, and all alone!
You can't, some other must.
_Mrs. Secord_. I must, no other can. The time is short,
And through the virgin woods my way doth lie,
For should those sentries meet, or all report
I passed their bounds, suspicion would be waked,
And then what hue and cry!
_Widow_. The woods! and are you crazed? You cannot go!
The woods are full of creatures wild and fierce,
And wolves prowl round about. No path is blazed,
No underbrush is cleared, no clue exists
Of any kind to guide your feet. A man
Could scarce get through, how then shall you?
_Mrs. Secord_. I have a Guide in Heaven. This task is come
To me without my seeking. If no word
Reaches Fitzgibbon ere that murderous horde
Be on him, how shall he save himself?
And if defeat he meets, then farewell all
Our homes and hopes, our liberties and lives.
_Widow_. Oh, dear! oh, dear! and must you risk your life,
Your precious life? Think of it, Laura, yet:
Soldiers expect to fight; and keep strict watch
Against surprise. Think of your little girls,
Should they be left without a mother's care;
Your duty is to them, and surely not
In tasks like this. You go to risk your life.
As if you had a right, and thereby leave
Those who to you owe theirs, unpitied,
Desolate. You've suffered now enough
With all you've lost, and James a cripple, too,
What will the children do should they lose you
Just when their youthful charms require your care?
They'll blame you, Laura, when they're old enough
To judge what's right.
_Mrs. Secord_. I do not fear it.
Children can see the right at one quick glance,
For, unobscured by self or prejudice,
They mark the aim, and not the sacrifice
Entailed.
_Widow_. Did James consent to have you go?
_Mrs. Secord_. Not till he found there was no other way;
He fretted much to think he could not go.
_Widow_. I'm sure he did. A man may undergo
A forced fatigue, and take no lasting hurt,
But not a woman. And you so frail--
It is your life you risk. I sent my lads,
Expecting them to run the chance of war,
And these you go to warn do but the same.
_Mrs. Secord_. You see it wrong; chances of war to those
Would murder be to these, and on my soul,
Because I knew their risk, and warned them not.
You'll think I'm right when tramp of armed men,
And rumble of the guns disturb you in your sleep.
Then, in the calmer judgment night-time brings,
You'd be the first to blame the selfish care
That left a little band of thirty men
A prey to near six hundred.
_Widow_. Just the old story! Six hundred--it's disgraceful!
Why, Were they tailors--nine to make a man--
'Tis more than two to one. Oh, you must go.
_Mrs. Secord_. I knew you'd say so when you came to think:
It was your love to me that masked your judgment.
I'll go and see poor Charles, but shall not say
My real errand, 'twould excite him so.
[_Exit_ MRS. SECORD.
_Widow_. Poor Laura! Would to God I knew some way
To lighten her of such a task as this.
[_Enter_ SERGEANT GEORGE.
_Sergeant_. Is it too early for the invalid?
The lads are here, and full of ardour.
_Widow_. Oh, no, his sister's with him.
[_Exit_ SERGEANT.
[_A bugle is heard sounding the assembly_.
_Enter_ MRS. SECORD _in alarm_.
_Mrs. Secord_. What's that! What's that!
_Widow_. I should have warned you, dear,
But don't be scared, its Sergeant George's boys.
He's gathered quite a company of lads
From round about, with every match-lock, gun,
Or fowling-piece the lads could find, and drills
Them regularly every second morn.
He calls 'em "Young St. David's Yeoman Guard,"
Their horses, "shankses naigie." Look you here!
(_Both ladies look through the open window from which is visible the
driving shed: here are assembled some twenty lads of all ages and
heights, between six and sixteen. They carry all sorts of old firelocks
and are "falling in." They are properly sized, and form a "squad with
intervals." In the rear stands a mash-tub with a sheepskin stretched
over it for a drum, and near it is the drummer-boy, a child of six; a
bugle, a cornet and a bassoon are laid in a corner, and two or three
boys stand near_.)
_Sergeant George_. Now, Archy, give the cadence in slow time.
(_To the squad_.) Slow--march. (_They march some thirty paces_.)
Squad--halt. (_They halt, many of them out of line_.) Keep your
dressing. Steps like those would leave some of you half behind
on a long march. Right about face--two--three. That's better.
Slow--march. (_They march_.) Squad--halt. (_They all bring
up into line_.) That's better. No hangers back with foe in
front. Left about face--two--three. Keep up your heads.
By the right--dress. Stand easy. Fall in, the band. We'll try
the music.
(_The band falls in, three little fellows have fifes, two elder ones
flutes, one a flageolet; the owners of the cornet, bugle and bassoon
take up their instruments, and a short, stout fellow has a
trombone_.)
_Sergeant George (to the band)_. Now show your loyalty, "The
King! God bless him."
[_They play, the squad saluting_.
_Sergeant George_ (_to band_.) That's very well, but mind
your time. (_To the squad_.) Now you shall march to music. (_To
the band_.) Boys, play--"The Duke of York's March." (_To
the squad_.) Squad--attention. Quick march. (_They march_.)
Squad--halt.
[_At a signal, the band ceases playing_.
Yes, that's the way to meet your country's foes.
If you were Yankee lads you'd have to march to this (_he
takes a flageolet)_. Quick--march.
(_Plays Yankee Doodle with equal cleverness and spite, travestying
both phrase and expression in a most ludicrous manner until the boys
find it impossible to march for laughter; the Sergeant is evidently
delighted with the result_.)
Ho! Ho! That's how you march to "Yankee Doodle."
'Tis a fine tune! A grand, inspiring tune,
Like "Polly put the Kettle on," or
"Dumble-dum-deary." Can soldiers march to that?
Can they have spirit, honour, or do great deeds
With such a tune as that to fill their ears?
_Mrs. Secord_. The Sergeant's bitter on the foe, I think.
_Widow_. He is, but can you wonder? Hounded out
When living peaceably upon his farm.
Shot at, and threatened till he takes a side,
And then obliged to fly to save his life,
Losing all else, his land, his happy home,
His loving wife, who sank beneath the change,
Because he chose the rather to endure
A short injustice, than belie his blood
By joining England's foes. He went with Moody.
_Mrs. Secord_. Poor fellow! Those were heavy times, like these.
_Sergeant George_. Now boys, the grand new tune, "Britannia
Rules the Waves," play _con spirito_, that means heart! mind!
soul! as if you meant it.
(_He beats time, and adds a note of the drum at proper points, singing
the chorus with much vigour and emphasis. Mrs. Secord betrays much
emotion, and when the tune is begun for the third verse, she hastily
closes the window_.)
Shut, shut it out, I cannot bear it, Ellen,
It shakes my heart's foundations! Let me go.
_Widow_. Nay, but you're soon upset. If you must go,
Your bonnet's on my bed. I'll get a bite
Of something for you on the road.
[_She busies herself in filling a little basket with refreshment,
and offers_ MRS. SECORD _cake and wine_.
Here, eat a bit, and drink a sup of wine,
It's only currant; the General's got a keg
I sent, when stores were asked; James Coffin's good;
He always sends poor Ned, or Jack, or Dick,--
When commissariat's low; a mother's heart,
A widowed mother, too, he knows, sore longs
To see her lads, e'en if she willing sends
Them all to serve the King. I don't forget him
Morning and night, and many a time between.
No wine? Too soon? Well, take this drop along.
There's many a mile where no fresh water is,
And you'll be faint--
[_She bursts into tears_.
Good lan', I cannot bear to see you go.
_Mrs. Secord_. Nay, sister, nay, be calm!
Send me away light-hearted,
[_Kisses her_.
I trust in God,
As you for your dear lads. Shew me the way
To gain the woods unseen by friend or foe,
The while these embryo soldiers are engaged.
_Widow_. I'll go with you a mile or two.
_Mrs. Secord_. No, no.
It might arouse suspicion.
[_She opens the door, and the_ WIDOW SECORD _joins her_.
_Widow_. Times indeed
When every little act has some to watch!
[_Points to a tree_.
You see yon oak just by the little birch--
_Mrs. Secord_. I do.
_Widow_. There is a little path leads down
To a small creek, cross that, and keep the sun
Behind you half a mile, and then you strike
The bush, uncleared and wild. Good God, to think--
_Mrs. Secord_. Think not, but pray, and if a chance occurs
Send aid to poor Fitzgibbon. Little help
Just in the nick of time oft turns the scale
Of fortune. God bless you, dear! Good bye.
[_They embrace with tears. Exit_ MRS. SECORD.
* * * * *
SCENE 2.--_A beautiful glade_.
_Enter_ MRS. SECORD.--_After scanning the spot searchingly, she
seats herself on a fallen trunk_.
_Mrs. Secord_. This spot is surely safe; here I will rest,
For unaccustomed service tires my limbs,
And I have travelled many a weary rood
More than a crow-line measures; ups and downs
Absorb so many steps that nothing add
To distance. Faint am I, too, and thirsty.
Hist! hist! ye playful breezes that do make
Melodious symphonies and rippling runs
Among the pines and aspens, hear I not
A little tinkling rill, that somewhere hides
Its sweet beneficence 'mid ferns and moss?
[_She rises and looks about_.
Ay, here it is: a tiny brilliancy
That glances at the light, as careful, still,
To keep the pure translucency that first
It caught from Heaven. Give me, oh give, sweet rill,
A few cool drops to slake my parching throat.
Fair emblem truly thou of those meek hearts
That thread the humblest haunts of suffering earth
With Christ-like charities, and keep their souls
Pure and untaint, by Heavenly communings.
[_She reseats herself, and contemplates the scene_.
O this is beautiful! Here I could lie--
Were earth a myth and all her trials nought--
And dream soft nothings all a summer's day.
In this fair glade were surely celebrate
The nuptials of the year: and for her gift,
Fair Flora, lightly loitering on the wing
Of Zephyrus, tossed all her corbel out,
Filling the air with bloom.
From yonder copse,
With kindling eye and hasty step, emerged
The gladsome Spring, with leafy honours crowned,
His following a troop of skipping lambs:
And o'er yon hill, blushing for joy, approached
His happy bride, on billowy odours borne,
And every painted wing in tendance bent.
Procession beautiful! Yet she how fair!--
The lovely Summer, in her robes of blue,
Bedecked with every flower that Flora gave,--
Sweet eglantine and meek anemone,
Bright, nodding columbine and wood-star white,
Blue violets, like her eyes, and pendant gems
Of dielytra, topaz-tipped and gold,
Fragrant arbutus, and hepatica,
With thousands more. Her wreath, a coronet
Of opening rose-buds twined with lady-fern;
And over all, her bridal-veil of white,--
Some soft diaph'nous cloudlet, that mistook
Her robes of blue for heaven.--
And I could dream
That, from his lofty throne beholding,
Great Sol, on wings of glowing eve, came down
In gracious haste, to bless the nuptials.
(_She pauses_.) And shall this land,
That breathes of poesy from every sod,
Indignant throb beneath the heavy foot
Of jeering renegade? at best a son
His mother blushes for--shall he, bold rebel
Entwine its glories in defiant wreath
Above his boastful brow, and flaunt it in
Her face, rejoicing in her woe? No! No!
This priceless gem shall ever deck her crown,
And grace its setting with a ray more pure
For that, nor flood, nor fire, can flaw its heart.
Yes, Canada, thy sons, at least, maintain
The ancient honour of their British blood,
In that their loyalty contracts no stain
From proffered gifts or gold.
But I must on. I may not loiter, while
So much depends on me.
(_She rises to proceed, and at the first step a rattlesnake rears up
at her, hissing and springing its rattles. She recoils in fear, but
remembering the cowardly nature of the creatures, throws sticks at it,
and it glides swiftly away_.)
Vile reptile!
Base as vile, and cowardly as base;
A straight descendant thou of him, methinks,
Man's ancient foe, or else his paraphrase.
Is there no Eden that thou enviest not?
No purity thou would'st not smirch with gall?
No rest thou would'st not break with agony?
Aye, Eve, our mother-tongue avenges thee,
For there is nothing mean, or base, or vile,
That is not comprehended in the name
Of SNAKE!
[_Exit_ MRS. SECORD.
* * * * *
SCENE 3--_A thick wood through which runs a forest path, leading to a
high beech ridge_.
_Enter_ MRS. SECORD, _walking as quickly as the underbrush will allow_.
_Mrs. Secord_. How quiet are the woods!
The choir of birds that daily ushers in
The rosy dawn with bursts of melody,
And swells the joyful train that waits upon
The footsteps of the sun, is silent now,
Dismissed to greenwood bowers. Save happy cheep
Of callow nestling, that closer snugs beneath
The soft and sheltering wing of doting love,--Like
croon of sleeping babe on mother's breast--No
sound is heard, but, peaceful, all enjoy
Their sweet siesta on the waving bough,
Fearless of ruthless wind, or gliding snake.
So peaceful lies Fitzgibbon at his post,
Nor dreams of harm. Meanwhile the foe
Glides from his hole, and threads the darkling route,
In hope to coil and crush him.
Ah, little recks he that a woman holds
The power to draw his fangs!
And yet some harm must come, some blood must flow,
In spite of all my poor endeavour.
O War, how much I hate thy wizard arts,
That, with the clash and din of brass and steel,
O'erpowers the voice of pleading reason;
And with thy lurid light, in monstrous rays
Enfolds the symmetry of human love,
Making a brother seem a phantom or a ghoul!
Before thy deadly scowl kind peace retires,
And seeks the upper skies.
O, cruel are the hearts that cry "War!" "War!"
As if War were an angel, not a fiend;
His gilded chariot, a triumphal car,
And not a Juggernauth whose wheels drop gore;
His offerings, flowers and fruit, and chaplets gay,
And not shrieks, tears, and groans of babes and women.
And yet hath War, like Juggernauth, a hold,
A fascination, for humanity,
That makes his vot'ries martyrs for his sake.
Even I, poor weakling, march in keeping-time
To that grand music that I heard to-day,
Though children played it, and I darkly feel
Its burden is resistance physical.
'Tis strange that simple tones should move one so!
What is it, what, this sound, this air, this breath
The wind can blow away,
Nor most intricate fetters can enchain?
What component of being doth it touch
That it can raise the soul to ecstasy,
Or plunge it in the lowest depth of horror?
Freeze the stopt blood, or send it flowing on
In pleasant waves?
Can draw soft tears, or concentrate them hard
To form a base whereon the martyr stands
To take his leap to Heaven?
What is this sound that, in Niagara's roar
Brings us to Sinai;
Or in the infant's prayer to Him, "Our Father?"
That by a small inflection wakes the world,
And sends its squadroned armies on
To victory or death;
Or bids it, peaceful, rest, and grow, and build?
That reassures the frighted babe; or starts
The calm philosopher, without a word?
That, in the song of little bird speaks glee;
Or in a groan strikes mortal agony?
That, in the wind, brings us to shipwreck, death.
And dark despair;
Or paints us blessed islands far from care or pain?
Then what is sound?
The chord it vibrates with its magic touch
Is not a sense to man peculiar,
An independent string formed by that breath
That, breathed into the image corporate,
Made man a living soul.
No, for all animate nature owns
Its sovereign power. Brutes, birds, fish, reptiles, all
That breathe, are awed or won by means of sound.
Therefore, it must be of the corporate, corporeal
And, if so, _why then the body lives again_,
Despite what sceptics say; for sound it is
Will summon us before that final bar
To give account of deeds done in the flesh.
The spirit cannot thus be summoned,
Since entity it hath not sound can strike.
Let sceptics rave! I see no difficulty
That He, who from primordial atoms formed
A human frame, can from the dust awake it
Once again, marshal the scattered molecules
And make immortal, as was Adam.
This body lives! Or else no deep delight
Of quiring angels harping golden strings;
No voice of Him who calls His children home;
No glorious joining in the immortal song
Could touch our being
But how refined our state!
How changed! Never to tire or grow distraught,
Or wish for rest, or sleep, or quietude,
But find in absence of these earthly needs
A truer Heaven.
O might I rest even now!
These feet grow painful, and the shadows tell
Of night and dark approaching, my goal
An anxious distance off.
[_She gazes round_.
I'll rest awhile,
For yonder height will tax my waning strength,
And many a brier all beautiful with bloom
Hides many a thorn that will dispute my path
Beneath those ancient beeches.
(_She seats herself, and having removed her bonnet, partakes of the
refreshment brought from the mill. As she eats, a grieved look comes
upon her face, and she wipes away a tear_.)
The sun leans towards the west: O darlings mine,
E'en now, perchance, ye sit in order round
The evening board, your father at the head,
And Polly in my place making his tea,
While he pretends to eat, and cheats himself.
And thou, O husband, dearest, might I lay
My, weary head as oft upon thy breast!--
But no (_she rises_), I dare not think--there is above
A Love will guard me, and, O blessed thought,
Thee, too, and they our darlings.
[_She proceeds towards the beech ridge, but is stayed at the foot
by a rapid-running stream_.
Nor bridge, nor stone, nor log, how shall I cross?
Yon o'erturned hemlock, whose wide-spreading root
Stands like a wattled pier from which the bridge
Springs all abrupt and strait, and hangs withal
So high that hardihood itself looks blank--
I scarce may tempt, worn as I am, and spent.
And on the other bank, the great green head
Presents a wilderness of tangled boughs
By which would be a task, indeed, to reach
The ground. Yet must I try. Poor hands, poor feet,
This is rough work for you, and one small slip
Would drop me in the stream, perchance to drown.
Not drown! oh, no, my goal was set by Heaven.
Come, rally all ye forces of the will,
And aid me now! Yon height that looms above
Is yet to gain before the sun gets low.
(_She climbs the hemlock root and reaches the trunk, across which she
crawls on her hands and knees, and at last finds herself some yards up
the beech ridge. After arranging her torn and dishevelled clothing she
proceeds up the ridge, at the top of which she encounters a British
sentry, who challenges_.)
_Sentry_. Who goes there?
_Mrs. Secord_. A friend.
_Sentry_. What friend?
_Mrs. Secord_. To Canada and Britain.
_Sentry_. Your name and errand.
_Mrs. Secord_. My name is Secord--Captain Secord's wife,
Who fought at Queenston;--and my errand is
To Beaver Dam to see Fitzgibbon,
And warn him of a sortie from Fort George
To move to-night. Five hundred men, with guns,
And baggage-waggons for the spoil, are sent.
For, with such force, the enemy is sure
Our stores are theirs; and Stoney Creek avenged.
_Sentry_. Madam, how know you this?
_Mrs. Secord_. I overheard
Some Yankee soldiers, passing in and out
With all a victor's license of our hearths,
Talk of it yesternight, and in such wise
No room for doubt remained. My husband wished
To bear the news himself, but is disabled yet
By those two wounds he got at Queenston Heights,
And so the heavy task remained with me,
Much to his grief.
_Sentry_. A heavy task indeed.
How got you past their lines?
_Mrs. Secord_. By many wiles;
Those various arts that times like these entail.
_Sentry_. And then how got you here?
_Mrs. Secord_. I left my home
At daybreak, and have walked through the deep woods
The whole way since I left St. David's Mill.
_Sentry_. 'Tis past belief, did not your looks accord.
And still you have a weary way to go,
And through more woods. Could I but go with you,
How gladly would I! Such deed as yours
Deserves more thanks than I can give. Pass, friend,
All's well.
[MRS. SECORD _passes the Sentry, who turns and walks with her_.
_Mrs. Secord_. There's naught to fear, I hope, but natural foes,
Lynxes or rattlesnakes, upon my way.
_Sentry_. There are some Mohawks ambushed in the wood,
But where I cannot quite point out; they choose
Their ground themselves, but they are friends, though rough,--
Some of Kerr's band, Brant's son-in-law. You'll need
To tell the chief your errand should you cross him.
_Mrs. Secord_. Thanks: for I rather fear our red allies.
Is there a piquet?
_Sentry_. No, not near me; our men are all too few--
A link goes to and fro 'twixt me and quarters,
And is but just now left (_he turns sharp about)_.
My limit this--
Yonder your road (_he points to the woods)_.
God be wi' you. Good-bye.
_Mrs. Secord_. Good-bye, my friend.
[_Exit_ MRS. SECORD.
_Sentry_. A bold, courageous deed!
A very woman, too, tender and timid.
That country's safe whose women serve her cause
With love like this. And blessed, too, it is,
In having such for wives and mothers.
* * * * *
SCENE 4.--_The forest, with the sun nearly below the horizon, its rays
illuminate the tops of the trees, while all below is dark and gloomy.
Bats are on the wing, the night-hawk careers above the trees, fire-flies
flit about, and the death-bird calls_.
_Enter_ MRS. SECORD, _showing signs of great fatigue_.
_Mrs. Secord_. Gloomy, indeed, and weird, and oh, so lone!
In such a spot and hour the mind takes on
Moody imaginings, the body shrinks as'twere,
And all the being sinks into a sea
Of deariness and doubt and death.
[_The call of the death-bird is heard_.
Thou little owl, that with despairing note
Dost haunt these shades, art thou a spirit lost,
Whose punishment it is to fright poor souls
With fear of death?--if death is to be feared,
And not a blank hereafter. The poor brave
Who answers thee and hears no call respond,
Trembles and pales, and wastes away and dies
Within the year, thee making his fell arbiter.
Poor Indian! Much I fear the very dread
Engendered by the small neglectful bird,
Brings on the fate thou look'st for.
So fearless, yet so fearful, do we all,
Savage and civil, ever prove ourselves;
So strong, so weak, hurt by a transient sound,
Yet bravely stalking up to meet the death
We see.
[_A prolonged howl is heard in the distance_.
The wolves! the dreadful wolves! they've scented me.
O whither shall I fly? no shelter near;
No help. Alone! O God, alone!
[_She looks wildly round for a place to fly to. Another howl
is heard_.
O Father! not this death, if I must die,
My task undone, 'tis too, too horrible!
[_Another howl as of many wolves, but at a distance; she bends to
listen, her hand upon her heart_.
Be still, wild heart, nor fill my list'ning ears
With thy deep throbs.
[_The howl of the wolves is again heard, but faintly_.
Thank God, not me they seek!
Some other scent allures the ghoulish horde.
On, on, poor trembler! life for life it is,
If I may warn Fitzgibbon.
[_She steps inadvertently into a little pool, hastily stoops and
drinks gladly_.
Oh blessed water! To my parched tongue
More precious than were each bright drop a gem
From far Golconda's mine; how at thy touch
The parting life comes back, and hope returns
To cheer my drooping heart!
(_She trips and falls, and instantly the Indian war-whoop resounds
close at hand, and numbers of braves seem to spring from the ground, one
of whom approaches her as she rises with his tomahawk raised_.)
_Indian_. Woman! what woman want?
_Mrs. Secord (leaping forward and seizing his arm)_. O chief,
no spy am I, but friend to you
And all who love King George and wear his badge.
All through this day I've walked the lonely woods
To do you service. I have news, great news,
To tell the officer at Beaver Dam.
This very night the Long Knives leave Fort George
To take him by surprise, in numbers more
Than crows on ripening corn. O help me on!
I'm Laura Secord, Captain Secord's wife,
Of Queenstown; and Tecumseh, your great chief,
And Tekoriogea are our friends.
_Chief_. White woman true and brave, I send with you
Mishe-mo-qua, he know the way and sign,
And bring you safe to mighty chief Fitzgibbon.
_Mrs. Secord_. O thanks, kind chief, and never shall your braves
Want aught that I can give them.
_Chief (to another)_. Young chief, Mish-e-mo-qua, with woman go,
And give her into care of big white chief.
She carry news. Dam Long-Knife come in dark
To eat him up.
_Mishe-mo-qua_. Ugh! rascal! dam!
[_Exeunt_ MISHE-MO-QUA _and_ MRS. SECORD.
ACT III
SCENE 1.--_Decau's house, a stone edifice of some pretensions. The
parlour, with folding doors which now stand a little apart. A sentry is
visible, on the other side of them. The parlour windows are barricaded
within, but are set open, and a branch of a climbing rose with flowers
upon it, swings in. The sun is setting, and gilds the arms that are
piled in one corner of the room. A sword in its scabbard lies across the
table, near which, in an arm-chair, reclines_ Lieutenant Fitzgibbon,
_a tall man of fine presence; in his right hand, which rests
negligently on the back of the chair, he holds a newspaper of four
pages, "The Times," from which he has been reading. Several elderly
weather-beaten non-commissioned officers and privates, belonging to the
49th, 104th, and 8th regiments, together with a few militiamen and two
cadets share the society of their superior officer, and all are very
much at their ease both in appointments and manner, belts and stocks are
unloosed, and some of the men are smoking_.
_Lieut. Fitzgibbon_. 'Tis true, it seems, and yet most horrible;
More than five hundred thousand fighting men
Crossed with him o'er the front, and not a tenth
Remains. Rather than let him find a place
For winter quarters, two hundred thousand
Happy families had to forsake their homes
In dead of winter, and of the ancient seat
Of Russian splendour, Rotopschin made a pyre,
A blazing pyre of all its precious things:
Moscow is burned.
_First Sergeant_. So Boney could but toast his freezing toes
And march back home again: Fine glory that!
_Fitzgibbon_. Sad waste of precious lives for one man's will.
But this mishap will seal his fate. The Czar
Will see his interest is a strong alliance,
And all the Powers will prove too great a match,
Even for Buonaparte.
_Second Sergeant_. Where is he now, Lieutenant?
_Fitzgibbon_. In Paris, plotting again, I see; or was
Nine weeks ago.
_First Private_. Yon news coom quick.
Now when I were a bairn, that's forty year sin',
We heard i' York 'at Merriky refused
To pay the taxes, just three munth's arter;
An' that wur bonnie toime, fur then t'coaach
Tuk but foive daaies ti mak' t' hull waai' doon,
Two hunner moile, fra Lunnon.
_Fitzgibbon (still scanning the newspaper)_.
Well, Jimmy, here's a man, one Bell,
Of Greenock, can send a boat by steam
Against the wind and tide, and talks with hope
Of making speed equal to both.
He's tried it on the Clyde, so we may look
For news from England in a month, ere long.
_First Private_. Na, na, sir; noo doant 'e pooak fun at me!
Iver he doos ma' I go hang. Why neist
They scatterbrain 'ull mayhap send a shep
Jest whear tha' loike wi'oot a win' at all.
Or promise till 't. 'Twere pity Nelson, noo,
He'd noan o' sech at Copenhaagen
Mebbe tha' cu'd ha' gott tha' grunded sheps
Afloat, an gett moor men to fe'ht them Daans.
_Fitzgibbon_. The fewer men the greater glory, Jim.
Why, man, he got his title by that fight.
_Second Sergeant_. And well deserved it! A finer man
Never trod deck, sailor or officer;
His voice gave courage, as his eye flashed fire.
We would have died for him, and he for us;
And when the fight was done he got our rights,
Or tried at it. More than old Parker did.
_First Sergeant_. Parker was rich, and so forgot the poor,
But Nelson forgot none.
_Second Private_. He was cliver, too. Dash't! how I laughed,
All i' my sleeve o' course. The fight was hot,
And getting hotter, for, gad, them Danes can fight!
And quite a quarter o' the ships was stuck,
The Admiral's among 'em. So Nelson held
The squadron at command. Up comes the word,
"The signal Thirty-nine is out, sir." Nelson turns,
His stump a-goin' as his arm was used
Afore he lost it, meets the officer, as says,
"Sir, Thirty-nine is out, shall I repeat it?"
"No, sir; acknowledge it." Then on he goes.
Presently he calls out, "What's flying now?"
"The same, sir." So he takes his glass
And puts it to his eye, his blind eye, mind you,
An' says he, "No signal can I see. No,
Ne'er a one." Winking to Ferguson, says he,
"I've but one eye, and may be blind sometimes.
What! strike off now and lose the day? Not so:
My signal keep for 'Closer battle,' flying.
That's how I'll answer. Confound the signal!
Nail mine to the mast." He won.
_First Militiaman_. Just touch and go for hanging, that.
_Fitzgibbon_. Success ne'er saw a scaffold, Jeremy.
_A Cadet_. Fine-looking fellow Nelson-was, I guess?
_First Sergeant_. To look at? No, a little, thin, pale man
With a long queue, one arm, and but one eye,
But that a blazer!
_Second Militiaman_. These little uns has lots o' spunk:
Boney's a little un, I've heerd.
_First Private_. Just so: and Wellington ain't big.
_Fitzgibbon (rising and drawing himself to his full height)_.
Come, boys, you're getting personal. See me!
If none but little men may win renown,
I hope I'm two in one, for your sakes.
And you forget the lion-hearted Brock.
_All (interrupting him)_. No! no! no!
_Fitzgibbon_. A man of height exceeding any here,
And yet whose alt of metred inches
Nobly enlarged to full, fair, Saxon mould,
And vested in the blazonments of rule,
Shewed not so kingly to the obeisant sight
As was his soul. Who than ye better knew
His bravery; his lofty heroism;
His purity, and great unselfish heart?
Nature in him betrayed no niggard touch
Of corporate or ethereal. Yet I yield
That men of lesser mould in outward form
Have been as great in deeds of rich renown.
But then, I take it, greatness lies not in
The flesh, but in the spirit. He is great
Who from the quick occasion of the time
Strikes out a name. And he is also great
Who, in a life-long struggle, throws the foe,
And binds on hoary locks the laurel crown.
Each is a high exemplar.
One with concentrate vigour strikes a blow
That rings around the world; the other draws
The world round him--his mighty throes
And well-contested standpoints win its praise
And force its verdict, though bleak indifference--
A laggard umpire--long neglect his post,
And often leaves the wrestler's best unnoted,
Coming but just in time to mark his thews
And training, and so decides: while the loud shock
Of unexpected prowess starts him aghast,
And from his careless hand snatches the proud award.
But mark me, men, he who is ever great
Has greatness made his aim--
The sudden blow or long-protracted strife
Yields not its secret to the untrained hand.
True, one may cast his statue at a heat,
But yet the mould was there;
And he who chips the marble, bit by bit,
Into a noble form, sees all the while
His image in the block.
There are who make a phantom of their aim--
See it now here, now there, in this, in that,
But never in the line of simple duty;
Such will accomplish nothing but their shame:
For greatness never leaves that thin, straight mark;
And, just as the pursuit diverges from it,
Greatness evanishes, and notoriety
Misleads the suitor. I'd have you think of this.
_All_. Aye, aye, sir.
_Fitzgibbon_. Order the lights, for darkness falls apace,
And I must write.
[_Exit_ First Private.
_Fitzgibbon (cutting the newspaper and handing the halves to
the sergeants)_. There, read to the rest, and let me have them
back when done with.
_Enter a_ Soldier _with lights_.
[_A voice is heard in the next room, beginning to sing_.
Who's that?
_First Private_. It's Roaring Bill, sir; shall I stop him?
_Fitzgibbon_. No; let him sing.
It cheers our loneliness, and does us good.
_First Sergeant_. Another of his own, I guess; homespun
And rough, like country cloth.
_Fitzgibbon_. Hush! what is that he says?
[_A_ Cadet _gently pushes one of the folding doors
a little wider open_.
_Roaring Bill_. 'Tis but a doleful ditty, boys,
With ne'er a chorus; yet I'll be bound
You'll hardly quarrel with it.
_A Comrade_. Let's have it, Bill; we ain't red Injuns,
As likes palaver.
_Roaring Bill_--
SONG.
October blasts had strown the wreaths that erstwhile hung so gay,
Above the brows of Queenston Heights where we impatient lay;
Niagara fretted at our feet, as chafing at his post,
And impotence to turn the fleets that bore the aggressive host.
And gray the dawn and cold the morn of Rensselaer's attack,
But warm and true the hearts, though few, that leapt to beat him back.
"On, Forth-ninth! On, volunteers! Give tongue, ye batteries twain!"
Bold Dennis spake: the guns boomed forth, and down he rushed amain.
They sink! They fly! They drop down stream.--Ah, too delusive sight!
A long-abandoned path they find, and gain the wooded height.
The batteries now must guard the shore--above, our struggle lies;
But down they pour, like surging flood, that skill and strength defies.
Down, down, they press us, inch by inch, beyond the village bound,
And there, o'erwhelmed, but not o'ercome, we keep our sullen ground.
Short time we stand. A ringing cheer proclaims our hero nigh;
Our darling leader, noble Brock--hark to his gallant cry!
"Follow me, boys!" the hero cries. We double to the wall--
Waving his gleaming sword on high, he climbs, and follow all;
Impetuous up the mountain side he strides in warlike glee,
All heedless of the leaden hail that whistles from each tree:
For on and up proud Victory lures--we touch her laurel crown--
When by malign, deliberate aim the hero's stricken down.
He falls! We fire, but ah, too late--the murderous work is done.
No more that voice shall cheer us on, with "Vict'ry!" in its tone.
He falls: nor word nor look may cheer young Jarvis' anxious quest;
Among his stricken men he sinks, his hand but seeks his breast.
O, Death, could none but him suffice thy cold, insatiate eye?
Nor knewed'st thou how many there for him would gladly die!
Nor lonely speeds the parting soul, nor lonely stands the bier--
Two forms the bastion-tomb enfolds, two claim the soldier's tear.
"Avenge the General!" was the cry. "AVENGE!" McDonell cries,
And, leading madly up the Height, McDonell falls and dies.
[_Several of the men pass their hands over their eyes;_
MR. JARVIS _goes to the open window, as if to observe
something without_.
_An 8th man_. A mournful ditty to a mournful tune,
Yet not unworthy of the heroic theme,
Nor of a soldier's heart.
_Mr. Jarvis (in a low voice)_. Indeed, you're right.
I thank the singer for his memories,
Though sad to me, who caught Brock's latest breath.
_Fitzgibbon_. I did not think there had been such a stroke
Of genius in the lad. (_Another voice_.) But who's this, now?
_Second Cadet_. It's young Jack Kelley, sir; he has a voice,
And emulates old Bill.
_Jack Kelley_ (_with the airs of an amateur_.) Ugh! ugh! I'm
hoarse.
Now mind the coal-box, byes, and sing it up.
"The Jolly Midshipman's" the tune.
SONG.
I.
It was a bold Canadian boy
That loved a winsome girl;
And he was bold as ancient knight,
She, fair as day's own pearl.
And to the greenwood they must go,
To build a home and name,
So he clasped hands with Industry,
For fortune, wealth and fame.
CHORUS
(In which all join, the leader beating time upon his knees with his
fists.)
For fortune, wealth and fame,
For fortune, wealth and fame;
So he clasped hands with Industry,
For fortune, wealth and fame.
II.
And when the jocund Spring came in,
He crowned the wedded pair.
And sent them forth with hearts elate
Their wildwood home to share.
For he had built a snug log-house,
Beneath a maple tree;
And his axe had cleared a wide domain,
While store of goods spun she.
CHORUS.
While store of goods spun she,
While store of goods spun she,
And his axe had cleared a wide domain,
While store of goods spun she.
III.
The husband whistles at his plough,
The wife sings at her wheel,
The children wind the shrilly horn
That tells the ready meal.
And should you roam the wide world o'er,
No happier home you'll see,
Than this abode of loving toil
Beneath the maple tree.
CHORUS.
Beneath the maple tree,
Beneath the maple tree,
Than this abode of loving toil
Beneath the maple tree.
_A 49th man_. Hurrah, Jack! that's a good tune,
Let's have the chorus again.
_All_--
Beneath the maple tree,
Beneath the maple tree,
Than this abode of lov--
[_The_ Sentry _challenges, and a_ Corporal _enters and
salutes_ FITZGIBBON.
_Fitzgibbon_. Well, Corporal.
_Corporal_. Sir, here is Mishe-mo-qua and a woman.
They say they've news, and wish to speak with you.
_Fitzgibbon_. Then, Corporal, show them in.
[_Exit_ Corporal.
_Enter_ MRS. SECORD _and the_ Indian Chief, _who salutes_ LIEUT.
FITZGIBBON.
_Several Militiamen_ (_in surprise, aside to each other_.) 'Tis Mrs.
Secord, Captain Secord's wife;
What can her errand be? So tired, too,
And in rags.
_Mrs. Secord_ (_courtesying_). You are the Captain, sir?
_Fitzgibbon_. At your service.
_Mrs. Secord_. I bring you news of great importance, sir.
_Fitzgibbon_. I am indebted, madam, for what I see
Has been no common task. Be seated, pray.
[_A Cadet places a chair_.
Chief, will you also rest?
[_He indicates a couch_.
_Mishe-mo-qua_. No. Woman, she
Come far, to tell white chief great words.
_Fitzgibbon_. I thank her much.
_Mrs. Secord_. I came to say that General Dearborn tires.
Of his inaction, and the narrow space
Around his works, he therefore purposes
To fall upon your outpost here, to-night,
With an o'erwhelming force, and take your stores:
_Fitzgibbon_. Madam!
_Mrs. Secord_. Five hundred men, with some dragoons and guns,
Start e'en to-night, soon as the moon goes down;
Lieutenant-Colonel Boerstler in command.
A train of waggons, too, is sent for spoil.
_Fitzgibbon_. And may I ask on what authority
To trust such startling news? I know you not.
_Mrs. Secord_. My name is Secord, I'm Captain Secord's wife,
Who fought at Queenston Heights, and there received
The wounds that leave him now a helpless cripple.
Some here may know him.
_Fitzgibbon_. I remember now.
_Mrs. Secord_. We live within the Yankee lines, and hence
By victor's right our home is free to them.
Last night a sergeant and his new-changed guard
Came in and asked for supper; a boy and girl
I left to wait on them, seeing the table set
With all supplies myself, and then retired.
But such their confidence; their talk so loud
And free, I could not help but hear some words
That raised suspicion; then I listened close
And heard, 'mid gibe and jest, the enterprise
That was to flout us; make the Loyalist
A cringing slave to sneering rebels; make
The British lion gnash his teeth with rage;--
The Yankee, hand-on-hip, guffawing loud
The while. At once, my British blood was up,
Nor had I borne their hated presence more,
But for the deeper cause. My husband judged
As I did, but his helpless frame forbade
His active interference, so I came,
For well we knew your risk, warning denied.
_Fitzgibbon_. Alone? You surely did not come alone?
_Mrs. Secord_. Sir, I have walked the whole way through the woods,
For fear of spies, braving all other foes.
Nor, since at early morn I left St. David's Mill,
Until I met your sentry on the ridge,--
Who begged me tell you so, and said "all's well,"--
Spoke I, or saw, a soul. Since then, the chief,
Whose senior sent him with me for a guide,
Has been my kind protector to your post.
_Fitzgibbon (to the chief_). I thank you, Mishe-mo-qua, and your chief.
(_To Mrs. Secord, bowing_.) But you, oh; madam, how shall I thank you?
You have, indeed, performed a woman's part,
A gentle deed; yet at expense of more
Than woman's fitting means. I am not schooled
In courtly phrases, yet may I undertake
To thank you heartily, not on our part
Alone, but in our good King George's name,
For act so kind achieved. Knew he your care
For his brave men--I speak for those around--
Of whom some fought for him at Copenhagen,
He would convey his thanks, and the Queen's, too--
Who loves all nobleness--in better terms
Than I, his humble servant. Affliction
Leaves him in our hands to do him justice;
And justice 'tis, alike to him and you,
To thank you in his name, and in the Regent's.
_The Soldiers_. Hurray! hurray! hurray!
[_They toss up their caps_.
_Mrs. Secord_. Sir, you make quite too much of my poor service,
I have but done my duty; and I beg
Let me not interrupt your movements now:
I would not be an obstacle across
The path I made.
_Fitzgibbon_. You add an obligation, madam.
[_At a signal the men from the next room file in_.
(_To the men_.) We've hot work coming, boys. Our good friend here
Has walked from Queenston, through the woods, this day,
To warn me that a sortie from Fort George
Is sent to take this post, and starts e'en now.
You, Cummings, mount--you know the way--and ride
With all your might, to tell De Haren this;
He lies at Twelve-Mile Creek with larger force
Than mine, and will move up to my support:
He'll see my handful cannot keep at bay
Five hundred men, or fight in open field.
But what strength can't accomplish cunning must--
I'll have to circumvent them.
[_Exit_ CUMMINGS.
(_To Mishe-mo-qua_.) And you, chief,
What will you do? You've stood by me so long,
So faithfully, I count upon you now.
_Mishe-mo-qua_. White chief say true: we good King George's men.
My warriors yell! hide! shoot! hot bullet fly
Like dart of Annee-meekee.
We keep dam Long-Knife back. I go just now.
_Fitzgibbon (handing the chief a twist of tobacco, which he puts
into his girdle with a grunt of satisfaction)_. A Mohawk is my
friend, and you are one.
[FITZGIBBON _shakes hands with the_ Chief, _who retires well pleased_.
(_To Mrs. Secord_.) Madam, how may I serve you to secure
Your safety? Refreshment comes; but here
Is no protection in our present strait.
_Mrs. Secord_. I thank you, sir, but will not tax you more
Than some refreshment. I have friends beyond
A mile or two, with whom I'll stay to-night.
_Fitzgibbon_. I'll spare an escort; Mr. Jarvis here will--
[MRS. SECORD _faints_.
Poor soul! poor soul! she is exhaust indeed.
(_The men run out and bring water_, Fitzgibbon _gets brandy from
a buffet, and_ Mr. Jarvis _unloosens her bonnet and collar. They
bathe her hands with the spirit and sprinkle her face with the water,
and at last_ MRS. SECORD _sighs heavily_.)
_Fitzgibbon_. She's coming to. Back, men; give her more air.
(MR. JARVIS _and another_ Cadet _support_ MRS. SECORD, _while_ LIEUT.
FITZGIBBON _offers her coffee, into which he has poured a little brandy,
feeding her with the spoon_.)
_An 8th man (aside_). She'll never walk to reach her friends to-night.
_A 49th man (to a comrade_). Jack, thou an' me can do't.
'Tyent the fust time
We've swung a faintin' comrade 'twixt us two;
An' her's just like a babby. Fatch a pole
An' blanket, an' we'll carry her.
_A Sergeant_. You'll then be in the rear, for we're to move.
_Second 49th man_. We'll catch ye oop a foight'n'; its summat wuth
To await o' sech as she.
_Fitzgibbon (to Mrs. Secord_). Are you better now?
_Mrs. Secord (trying to stand_). I think I am. Oh, sir, I'm losing you
The time I tried to save! Pray leave me--
I shall be better soon, and I can find my way.
_Fitzgibbon_. Nay, be not anxious; we are quite prepared.
Sheathed though our claws may be, they're always sharp.
Pray drink again, nor fear the potent touch
That snatches back the life when the spent heart,
Oppressed by cruel tasks, as yours, can scarcely beat.
[MRS. SECORD _drinks the coffee, and again rises, but can
scarcely stand_.
_49th man (saluting_). Sir, me an' Bill has here a hammock ready,
An' volunteers to see the lady safe.
Among her friends.
_Mrs. Secord_. But I can walk.
_Fitzgibbon_. Madam, you cannot. Let these carry you;
An honour I do grudge them. I shall move
With better heart knowing you cared for.
_Mrs. Secord_. I'll go at once--
_Fitzgibbon_. Men, bring your hammock hither.
(_The hammock is brought, and_ MRS. SECORD _is assisted into it
by_ LIEUT. FITZGIBBON, _who wraps a blanket round her. The men fall
into line, and salute as she passes. At the door she offers her hand
to_ FITZGIBBON.)
_Mrs. Secord_. Farewell, sir. My best thanks for all your goodness,
Your hospitality, and this, your escort;
You do me too much honour.
_Fitzgibbon_. Should we not
Show our respect for one has done so much
For us? We are your debtors, madam.
[_He points to the sky, set thick with brilliant stars, the moon
having already set_.
See how the eyes of heaven look down on you,
And smile, in gentle approbation
Of a most gentle deed. I pray they light
You safely to your friends.
_Mrs. Secord_. And you to victory, sir. Farewell.
[FITZGIBBON _bows_.
[_Exeunt_ MRS. SECORD _and her escort_.
_Fitzgibbon (to the men who have crowded round the door, and
are awaiting orders_). Men, never forget this woman's noble deed.
Armed, and in company, inspirited
By crash of martial music, soldiers march
To duty; but she, alone, defenceless,
With no support but kind humanity
And burning patriotism, ran all our risks
Of hurt, and bloody death, to serve us men,
Strangers to her save by quick war-time ties.
Therefore, in grateful memory and kind return,
Ever treat women well.
_Men_. Aye, aye, sir.
_Fitzgibbon_. Now, then, for action. I need not say,
Men, do your duty. The hearts that sprung
To follow Nelson; Brock; have never failed.
I'm proud, my men, to be your leader now.
* * * * *
SCENE 2.--_Morning twilight. A little wayside tavern at a cross-road_.
_Enter_ FITZGIBBON, _reconnoitring_.
_Fitzgibbon_. They must be pretty near by this time,
If they are come at all.
(_Two American soldiers of the advanced guard rush out of the tavern
and present their rifles_. FITZGIBBON _springs on them, and,
seizing each man's weapon, crosses them in front of himself_.)
Not yet, my friends.
[_They struggle, and one of the Americans draws_ FITZGIBBON'S
_sword and is about to plunge it in his shoulder_.
_Enter a woman, the_ tavern-keeper.
_Woman_. Ye Yankee rogue! ye coward!
[_She snatches the sword, and runs into the tavern with it_.
_Fitzgibbon_. Take that! and that!
[_He trips up one man, and knocks the other down, putting his
foot on the man's breast_.
Now, give me up your arms.
[_They give up their arms_.
_Enter_ FITZGIBBON'S _command_.
Here, Sergeant, march them in and set a guard.
[_They are marched into the tavern. Shots are heard_.
_Fitsgibbon_. They're come! Quick--march, my lads.
* * * * *
SCENE 3.--_The beech ridge. Frequent firing. The Indian war-whoop.
Bugles sounding the advance_.
_Enter_ LIEUT. FITZGIBBON _and_ COL. THOMAS CLARKE.
_Fitzgibbon_. The Mohawks have done well; and I am glad
To have your help, sir, too. What is your strength?
_Clarke_. But twenty, sir, all told.
_Fitzgibbon_. And I but thirty. Too few to fight such force
In open field. But Boerstler's lost his head:
Deluded by our calls, your fierce attack,
And Indian fighting--which to them has ghosts
Of their own raising--scalps, treachery, what not.
There is our chance: I mean to summon him
To a surrender.
_Clarke (in great surprise)_. Sir!
_Fitzgibbon_. 'Tis a bold stroke, I grant, and if it fail
Why then I'll fight it out. Keep up the scare
Some moments longer, and we'll see.
_Clarke_. Good luck betide so brave a word;
I'll do my best.
[_Exit_ COL. CLARKE.
_Enter the American force in some confusion_.
(FITZGIBBON _sends forward a flag of truce; the bugles sound "Cease
firing;" an officer advances from the American lines and_ FITZGIBBON
_goes forward to meet him_.)
_Fitzgibbon_. Sir, with my compliments to your commander,
I am the leader of this large detachment,
Backed closely up by reinforcements
Larger still. Indians, our good allies,
Swarm in the woods around; and in your rear
A strong militia force awaits my orders:
Therefore, sir, to save a useless loss
Of brave men's lives, I offer you fair terms
Of full surrender.
_American officer_. I will report, sir,
To Colonel Boerstler.
[_Exit_.
_Fitzgibbon_ (_aside)_. And I will pray.
For after all in God's hand lies the day:
I've done the best I know.
_Enter the American officer and an orderly_.
_American officer_. Sir, with respect, our colonel bids me say
That, seeing fate and fortune both unite
To mar success, he'll rather save his men
By fair surrender, than waste their lives
In useless struggle. He commissions me
To act in drawing up the terms.
I am McDowell, captain of a troop.
_Fitzgibbon_ (_bowing)_. Your humble servant, sir. We'll try to please
Your colonel; rejoicing we have met a foe
Who knows the bravery of discretion.
_Enter_ COL. CLARKE, CAPT. KERR, _of the Indian contingent, and_
MISHE-MO-QUA.
(_The British officers consult, and then invite_ CAPT. MCDOWELL
_to join them. A drum is brought, Major De Haren produces writing
materials; and terms of capitulation are drawn up, which are read to_
CAPT. MCDOWELL.)
_Fitzgibbon_. Our terms we make as light as possible:
I hope you'll find them so, sir.
_Capt. McDowell_ (_after reading_). Terms generous and honourable sir;
I thank you. A noble foe is always half a friend.
I'll carry them to Colonel Boerstler,
With your consent.
[FITZGIBBON _bows_.
[_Exit_ CAPT. MCDOWELL.
_Enter_ MAJOR DE HAREN, _who hastens to greet_ LIEUT. FITZGIBBON.
_Major De Haren_. Why, what is this, Fitzgibbon, that I hear?
That with your little handful you have caught
Five hundred enemy? A very elephant!
_Fitzgibbon_. A strait like mine required some strategy.
_De Haren_. My dear, brave fellow, you have surely won
The golden epaulettes! How glad I am
I was not here before. Such tact! such skill!
You are a soldier born. But who comes hither?
_Enter_ COL. BOERSTLER, CAPT. MCDOWELL _and other American officers_.
_Fitzgibbon_. These are the officers to sign our terms.
[_The officers on both sides salute_.
_Boerstler_ (_to Fitzgibbon_). I thank you, sir, for honourable terms,
For vain it was to cope with force like yours.
But ne'er I thought to put my hand to such
A document.
[_He takes up the pen_.
_Fitzgibbon_. Fortune of war, sir, that we all may meet.
[_Each officer signs the document in his order_; MISHE-MO-QUA
_draws his totem--a bear--as his signature_.
_De Haren_ (_to Col. Boerstler_). Will you proceed on the third article?
_Boerstler_ (_to Capt. McDowell_). Give you the order.
[_Exit_ CAPT. MCDOWELL.
_Fitzgibbon_ (_to his men, who are drawn up across the road--
De Haren's command forming their right and left wings_).
Forward--ten paces.
[_Enter by companies the American force, who lay down their arms
in front of the British officers and defile to the rear_.
_De Haren_ (_to Fitzgibbon_). A glorious day for you, Fitzgibbon;
For this fair Canada, and British arms.
_Fitzgibbon_. Yes, thanks to a brave woman's glorious deed.
[_Exeunt_.
* * * * *
POEMS
A BALLAD OF 1812.
Now hush the martial trumpet's blare,
And tune the softer lyre;
Nor shrink lest gentler tones should lack
The high, heroic fire:
For many a valiant deed is done,
And great achievement wrought,
Whose inspiration knows no source
Save pure and holy thought.
Nor think some lofty pedestal,
Proud-lifted towards the skies,
The only plane where Worth can wrest
From Fame her highest prize:
For many a nameless nook and lone,
And many a tongueless hour,
Sees deeds performed whose glories shame
The pride of pomp and power.
Nor dream that to a noble deed
It needs a noble name;
Or that to mighty act achieved
Must link a stalwart frame:
For strung by Duty's steady hand,
And thrilled by Love's warm touch,
Slight forms and simple names may serve
At need, to avail for much.
Then lay the blaring trumpet by,
And tune the softer lyre
To songs of Woman's chivalry,
Of Woman's patriot fire.
I.
O heard ye not of Queenston Heights,--
Of Brock who fighting fell,--
And of the Forty-ninth and York,
Who 'venged their hero well?--
And of the gallant stand they made--
What prowess kept at bay
The swelling foe, till Sheaffe appeared,
And won the glorious day!
Yet heard ye how--ban of success--
Irresolution ruled,
Till all our green peninsula
And border-land, were schooled
To bear, nathless all frowningly,
The yoke of alien power,
And wait in patience, as they might,
The dawn of happier hour.
Till Forty-mile, and Stony Creek,
Revived our waning hopes,
And round Fort-George a limit held
The Yankees as with ropes.
Yet, as do cordons oft enclose
The unwilling with the fain,
Our people, by forced parole held,
Could naught but own the rein.
Then heard ye how a little post.
Some twenty miles away,
A check upon proud Dearborn's hopes,
Was fixed upon for prey?
And how lest Britain's bull-dog pluck,
Roused by their isolation,
Should make these few, brave, lonely men,
Fight as in desperation,
And prove a match for thrice their odds,
They made them three times three,
And thrice of that, with guns to boot,
To insure a victory?
Then they would take the Night along
--No mean ally with odds,
As Stony Creek can testify:
But then she marched with gods!--
Yet blame ye not the silent Night
That she was forced to go,
For oft have captives been compelled
To serve the hated foe:
And oft with grave and quiet mien,
And Samson-like intent,
Have brought about such ends, as by
Their lords were never meant.
Then blame ye not the dark-eyed Night,
Of grave and silent mien;
Her whisper 'twas that foiled the foe,
And fired our patriot queen.
II.
"And why, my husband, why so pale?"
'Twas Laura Secord spoke;
And when she heard his plaintive tale,
Then all the patriot woke.
"Thou knowest how Fitzgibbon holds
The post at Beaver Dams,
And Dearborn frets, and fumes, and chafes,
And calls us British shams:
"Because we will not, willing, give,
To feed an alien foe,
The substance, all too poor and sparse,
Our stinted fields may grow.
"So when the Night puts on her robes
Of sad and sable hue,
A host he sends, of shameful strength,
To oust that noble few.
"And who shall warn Fitzgibbon? Who?
My weakness is my bale;
At such an hour of pressing need,
O that my aid should fail!
"And yet, my country, if my blood,
Drawn from me drop by drop,
Could save thee in this awful strait,
'Twere thine,'twere thine, to stop
"This massacre, this horrid crime,
To baulk this wicked plot!
My parole given!--by Heaven I could--
I Would--regard it not.
"But here am I, a cripple weak;
Great Heaven! and must they fall
Because I, wretched I alone,
Know what will sure befall!"
"Calm thee, my husband, calm thee now.
Heaven ne'er points out a deed,
But to the creature by whose means
Its action is decreed:
"Thou, had'st thou not been sick and lame,
Would'st ne'er have learned this plot,
And had'st thou strength thou could'st not pass
The lines, and not be shot.
"Wherefore,'tis plain, 'tis not to thee
The careful task is given;
'Tis rather me; and I will go,
Safe in the care of Heaven."
"Thou go, dear wife! a woman soft,
And not too brave to shake
At sight of wolf or catamount,
Or many-rattled snake:
"Thou go!" "Nay, smile not, I will go;
Fitzgibbon shall not fall
Unwarned at least; and Heaven will guard
Its messenger-in-thrall."
III.
Scarce had Aurora backward drawn
The curtains of the night,
Scarce had her choristers awaked
The echoes with delight;
When Laura Secord left her home,
With holy message fraught,
And lone Fitzgibbon's distant post
With hasty footsteps sought.
She chides the harsh-tongued sentinel
Whose musket stops her way,
And hies her from his curious sight
In such sort as she may.
A second bars her forward path,
Nor will he be content;
And all her woman's wit she needs
Before his doubts are spent.
Beyond, a third the challenge gives;--
She almost gasps for breath--
"Oh, at the Mill my brother lies
Just at the point of death."
But he nor cares for death nor life:
Yet when she kneels and weeps,
He yields: for--in his rugged heart
A tender memory sleeps.
With beating heart and trembling limb,
Swift hastes she; yet in ruth
That even for her country's sake,
She needs must veil the truth.
And when a rise of ground permits
A last, fond, lingering look,
She, tearful, views her home once more--
A lowly, leafy nook.
For there her sleeping children lie
Unconscious of her woe;
Her choking sobs may not be stayed,
For oh, she loves them so!
And there she leaves her maiden choice,
Her husband, lover, friend.
Oh, were she woman could she less
To homely sorrows lend!
On altar of the public weal
Must private griefs expire,--
Her tender grief exhaled to Heaven
On wings of patriot fire.
The dew still glistened on the grass,
The morning breezes swung
The honeysuckle and the rose,
Above, whose sweetness hung.
The fritil' butterfly, the bee,
Whose early labours cheer,
And point the happy industry
That marks the opening year.
The cheerful robin's sturdy note,
The gay canary's trill,
Blent with the low of new-milked kine
That sauntered by the rill:
When Laura Secord stood beside
The doomed St. David's door,
Whose portals never closed upon
The weary or the poor.
"O sister," cries the widowed dame,
"What trouble brings you here?
Doth Jamie ail? Hath aught arisen
To mar your fettered cheer?"
"Nor aileth any at the farm,
Nor is our cheer less free,
But I must haste to Beaver Dam,
Fitzgibbon there to see.
"For many a foe this coming night,
To take him by surprise,
Is detailed, and he must be warned
Before the moon doth rise."
O pallid grew the gentle dame,
And tremulous her tone,
As Laura Secord, at the board,
Made all her errand known.
And oft her pallor turned to red,
By indignation fired;
And oft her red to pallor turned,
For Laura's sake retired.
And many a cogent argument
She used, of duteous wives;
And many more that mothers thus
Should never risk their lives.
And of the dangers of the way
She told a trembling tale;
But to divert a settled mind
Nor words nor woes avail.
And many a tear she let down fall,
And some dropt Laura too,--
But "'Tis my country!" yet she cried,
"My country may not rue."
A tender leave she gently takes
Of him all wounded laid
Upon his weary couch of pain,
But hides her errand sad.
And then, while yet the day was young,
The sun scarce quarter high,
She plunges 'mid the sheltering bush,
In fear of hue and cry,--
Of hue and cry of cruel foes
Who yet might learn her route,
And mad with rage of baffled aim,
Should spring in hot pursuit.
On, on she speeds through bush and brake,
O'er log and stone and briar;
On, on, for many a lengthening mile
Might stouter footsteps tire.
The hot sun mounts the upper skies,
Faint grows the fervid air,
And wearied nature asks for rest
Mid scenes so soft and fair.
The sward all decked with rainbow hues,
The whispering of the trees,
Nor perfumed airs of flowery June,
Can win her to her ease.
Ah, serpent in our Paradise!
In choicest cup our gall!
'Twas thou, distraught Anxiety,
Wrapped Beauty's self in pall;
And for that lonely traveller
Empoisoned those sweet springs,
To souls that languish, founts of life
Bestirred by angel wings.
Thou gavest each breeze an infant's cry,
A wailing, woesome tone;
And in each call of wildwood bird
Spoke still of freedom gone.
Nay now, why starts she in her path,
By yonder tangled brake?
'Tis at the dreaded menace sprung
By angry rattlesnake.
But know that fear is not the brand
That marks the coward slave;
'Tis conquered fear, and duty done,
That tells the truly brave.
With stick, and stone, and weapon mean
She drives the wretch away,
And then, with fluttering heart, pursues
Her solitary way.
And oft she trips, and oft she falls,
And oft her gown is torn,
And oft her tender skin is pierced
By many a clutching thorn.
And weariness her courage tries;
And dread of devious way;
And oft she hears the wild-cat shriek
A requiem o'er its prey.
And when the oppressive summer air
Hangs heavy in the woods,--
Though many a bank of flowerets fair
Invites to restful moods;
And though the ruby humming-bird
Drones with the humming bee;
And every gnat and butterfly
Soars slow and fitfully;
No rest that anxious messenger
Of baleful tidings takes,
But all the waning afternoon
Her morning speed she makes.
Over the hills, and 'mongst the brier,
And through the oozy swamp,
Her weary steps must never tire
Ere burns the firefly's lamp.
Oh, wherefore drops she on her knees,
And spreads imploring hands?
Why blanches that courageous brow?
Alas! the wolves' dread bands!
"Nay, not this death, dear Father! Not
A mangled prey to these!"
She faintly cries to Heaven, from out
The darkening waste of trees.
Fear not, O patriot, courage take,
Thy Father holds thy hand,
Nor lets the powers of ill prevail
Where He doth take command.
Away the prowling ghouls are fled,
Some fitter prey to seek;
The trembling woman sighs the thanks
Her white lips cannot speak.
IV.
Now wherefore halts that sentry bold,
And lays his piece in rest,
As from the shadowy depths below
One gains the beechen crest?
'Tis but a woman, pale and faint,--
As woman oft may prove,
Whose eagle spirit soars beyond
The home-flight of the dove.
How changes now the sentry's mien,
How soft his tones and low,
As Laura Secord tells her tale
Of an impendent foe!
"God bless thee, now, thou woman bold,
And give thee great reward."
The soldier says, with eyes suffused,
And keeps a jealous guard,
As onward, onward still she goes,
With steady step and true,
Towards her goal, yet far away,
Hid in the horizon blue.
Behind her grows the golden moon,
Before her fall the shades,
And somewhere near her hides the bird
Whose death-call haunts the glades.
The early dew blooms all the sod,
The fences undulate
In the weird light, like living lines
That swell with boding hate.
For she has left the tangled woods,
And keeps the open plain
Where once a fruitful farm-land bloomed,
And yet shall bloom again.
And now, as nears the dreaded hour.
Her goal the nearer grows,
And hope, the stimulus of life,
Her weary bosom glows.
Toward's lone Decamp's--whose ancient home
Affords Fitzgibbon's band
Such shelter as the soldier asks
Whose life hangs on his brand--
A steady mile or so, and then--
Ah, what is't rends the air
With horrent, blood-encurdling tones.
The tocsin of despair!
It is the war-whoop of the braves,
Of Kerr's famed Mohawk crew,
Who near Fitzgibbon ambushed lie
To serve that lonely few.
Startled, yet fearless, on she speeds.
"Your chief denote," she cries;
And, proudly towering o'er the crowd,
The chief does swift arise.
Fierce rage is in his savage eye,
His tomahawk in air;
"Woman! what woman want?" he cries,
"Her death does woman dare!"
But quickly springs she to his side,
And firmly holds his arm,
"Oh, chief, indeed no, spy am I,
But friend to spare you harm."
And soon she makes her errand known,
And soon, all side by side,
The red man and his sister brave
In silence quickly glide.
And as the moon surmounts the trees,
They gain the sentried door,
And faintly to Fitzgibbon she
Unfolds her tale once more.
Then, all her errand done, she seeks
A lowly dwelling near,
And sinks, a worn-out trembling thing,
Too faint to shed a tear.
V.
Now let the Lord of Hosts be praised!
Cheer brave Fitzgibbon's band,
Whose bold discretion won the day,
And saved our threatened land!
And cheer that weary traveller,
On lowly couch that lies,
And scarce can break the heavy spell.
That holds her waking eyes.
No chaplet wreathes her aching brows.
No paeans rend the air;
But in her breast a jewel glows
The tried and true may wear.
And Time shall twine her wreath of bays
Immortal as her fame,
And many a generation joy,
In Laura Secord's name.
"Fitzgibbon and the Forty-ninth!"
Whene'er ye drink that toast
To brave deeds done a grateful land,
Praise Laura Secord most.
As one who from the charged mine
Coils back the lighted fuse,
'T was hers, at many a fearful risk,
To carry fateful news;
And save the dreadnought band; and give
To Beaver Dam a name,
The pride of true Canadian hearts,
Of others, but the shame.
VI.
Now wherefore trembles still the string
By lyric fingers crossed,
To Laura Secord's praise and fame,
When forty years are lost?
Nay, five and forty, one by one,
Have borne her from the day
When, fired by patriotic zeal,
She trod her lonely way:
Her hair is white, her step is slow,
Why kindles then her eye,
And rings her voice with music sweet
Of many a year gone by?
O know ye not proud Canada,
With joyful heart, enfolds
In fond embrace, the royal boy
Whose line her fealty holds?
For him she spreads her choicest cheer,
And tells her happiest tale,
And leads him to her loveliest haunts,
That naught to please may fail.
And great art thou, O Chippewa,
Though small in neighbours' eyes,
When out Niagara's haze thou seest
A cavalcade arise;
And, in its midst, the royal boy,
Who, smiling, comes to see
An ancient dame whose ancient fame
Shines in our history.
He takes the thin and faded hand,
He seats him at her side,
Of all that gay and noble band,
That moment well the pride: