ROBINSON. No fear of that!
BROCK. I trust there is not; yet I speak of it
As what is to be feared more than the odds.
For like to forests are communities—
Fair at a distance, entering you find
The rubbish and the underbrush of states,
'Tis ever the mean soul that counts the odds,
And, where you find this spirit, pluck it up—
'Tis full of mischief.
MACDONELL. It is almost dead.
England's vast war, our weakness, and the eagle
Whetting his beak at Sandwich, with one claw
Already in our side, put thought to steep
In cold conjecture for a time, and gave
A text to alien tongues. But, since you came,
Depression turns to smiling, and men see
That dangers well-opposed may be subdued
Which shunned would overwhelm us.
BROCK. Hold to this!
For since the storm has struck us we must face it.
What is our present count of volunteers?
NICHOL. More than you called for have assembled, Sir—
The flower of York and Lincoln.
BROCK. Some will go
To guard our frontier at Niagara.
Which must be strengthened even at the cost
Of York itself. The rest to the Detroit,
Where, with Tecumseh's force, our regulars,
And Kent and Essex loyal volunteers,
We'll give this Hull a taste of steel so cold
His teeth will chatter at it, and his scheme
Of easy conquest vanish into air.
[Enter a COMPANY of MILITIA with their OFFICERS, unarmed. They salute, march across the stage, and make their exit.]
What men are those? Their faces are familiar.
ROBINSON. Some farmers whom you furloughed at Fort
George,
To tend their fields, which still they leave half-
reaped
To meet invasion.
BROCK. I remember it!
The jarring needs of harvest-time and war,
Twixt whose necessities grave hazards lay.