Hull with his army had recrossed the stream.
Baffled and beaten, his ambitious dream
Of conquest had ended in sore defeat;
From Proctor’s front he was forced to retreat.
Brock placed his guns by the riverside—
A gallant soldier with a soldier’s pride—
Protected his front there sternly and well,
Demanding the surrender of Fort Springwell.
Refused, Brock opened with thunder’s roar,
Shaking the trembling river and shore.
The Queen Charlotte and Hunter swept around,
And rent and ruined trench, moat and mound.
Covered by the guns, Brock crossed the stream,
And forming his little columns between
Flanks of Indians, moved forward once more
To storm the fort by the great river’s shore.
Hull’s courage failed, and his flag he hauled down,
Surrendering the State, fort, and the town;
And his beaten forces, guns, stores and all
Were included in that momentous fall.
All Canada rang with Brock’s deathless fame,
And every heart was all grandly aflame.
They raised the Old Flag o’er the conquered foe,
Where the stream goes by in murmuring flow.
THE DANDELION.
I was weary of toil and heartache,
And the ways of selfish men,
And wandered away through the woodlands,
By streamlet and lonely glen.
And soothing and sweet was the greeting
The grand old woods gave to me;
A whisper of angel voices,
And a glimpse of eternity.
And out where the green hills were smiling
In the sunlight’s mellow beams,
I wandered all enraptured
By subtly happy dreams.
The glad morning never was fairer,
A gracious and perfect day,
And the wondrous bloom of springtime
Had crowned the loveliest May.
And a thousand songsters warbled
In melody sweet and clear;
From nook and glade and wildwood bower
It ravished the list’ning ear.
And the soft skies never were bluer,
The breezes never more bland,
And a restful calm and peacefulness
Brooded sweetly o’er the land.
I turned my eyes from the fair blue skies
To the turf beneath my feet;
And it mantled the rolling landscape
In emerald waves complete.
I paused with a thrill of pure delight—
A gleam as of sunset bars
Shone from innumerable dandelions,
That twinkled like golden stars
By stream and mead and sun-crowned hills
As far as the eye could trace;
And the little busy honey bees
Sipped the dew from each golden face.
Ah, little life of a few sweet days,
Born when the world is in bloom,
Thou never wilt know the blight and chill
Of the winter’s dreary gloom.