| 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. [!-- Begin Page 70 --] 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? [!-- Begin Page 71 --] 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: [!-- Begin Page 72 --] "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. [!-- Begin Page 73 --] "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." [!-- Begin Page 74 --] 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. [!-- Begin Page 75 --] 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. [!-- Begin Page 76 --] 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. [!-- Begin Page 77 --] 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. [!-- Begin Page 78 --] 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. [!-- Begin Page 79 --] 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. [!-- Begin Page 80 --] 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. [!-- Begin Page 81 --] 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; [!-- Begin Page 82 --] 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. [!-- Begin Page 83 --] 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: To him the aged Secord tells, With many a fervid glow, How, by her means, Fitzgibbon struck His great historic blow. Nor deem it ye, as many do, A weak and idle thing That, at that moment Laura loved The praises of a king; And dwelt on his approving smile, And kissed his royal hand, Who represented, and should wield, The sceptre of our land; For where should greatness fire her torch, If not at greatness' shrine? And whence should approbation come Did not the gods incline? VII. And when, from o'er the parting seas, A royal letter came, And brought a gift to recognize Brave Laura Secord's fame. What wonder that her kindling eye Should fade, suffused in tears? What wonder that her heart should glow, Oblivious of the years? And honour ye the kindly grace Of him who still hath been In all things kindly, and the praise Of our beloved Queen. |
[THE QUEEN'S JUBILEE,
JUNE 21ST, 1887.]
| A Jubilee! A Jubilee! Waft the glad shout across the laughing sea! A Jubilee! A Jubilee! O bells Ring out our gladness on your merry peals! O thou, the root and flower of this our joy, Well may thy praise our grateful hearts employ! Fair as the moon and glorious as the sun, Thy fame to many a future age shall run. "I WILL BE GOOD." 'Twas thus thy judgment spake, When, greatness would allure for greatness' sake. Thou hast been good: herein thy strength hath lain; And not thine only, it hath been our gain: Nor ours alone, for every people's voice, Because thou hast been good, doth now rejoice. Beneath the shelter of that fruitful vine— Thy goodness—hath pure Virtue reared her shrine. Freedom hath lift her flag, and flung it free, Rejoicing in a god-like liberty. Truth hath her gracious lineaments revealed To humble souls, beneath Victoria's shield. Mercy, whose message bore thy first command, Hath carried festival to every land. Justice hath worn his robes unsmirched of gold; Nor longer strikes in vengeance, as of old. Kind Pity, wheresoe'er the tried might be, Widow, and babe, hath borne a balm from thee. Valour hath drawn his sword with surer aim: And Peace hath signed her treaties in thy name. [!-- Begin Page 85 --] Honour hath worn his plumes with nobler grace: And Piety pursued her readier race. Learning hath pressed where ne'er she walked before: And Science touched on realms undreamt of yore. Commerce hath spread wide wings o'er land and sea, And spoken nations glorious yet to be. Before the light of Temperance' purer grace. Excess hath veiled his spoiled and purpled face. And never since the peopled world began Saw it so strong the brotherhood of man. Great glory thus hath gathered round thy name,— VICTORIA. QUEEN. Goodness hath been thy fame, And greatness shall be, for the twain are one: As thy clear eye discerned ere rule begun. O Queen, receive anew our homage free: Our love and praise on this thy Jubilee. |
[THE HERO OF ST. HELEN'S ISLAND.
CANADA'S TRIBUTE TO THE TWENTY-FOURTH (2ND WARWICKSHIRE) REGIMENT.]
| O the roaring and the thunder! O the terror and the wonder! O the surging and the seething of the flood! O the tumbling and the rushing— O the grinding and the crushing— O the plunging and the rearing of the ice! When the great St. Lawrence River, With a mighty swell and shiver, Bursts amain the wintry bonds that hold him fast. 'Twas on an April morning— And the air was full of warning Of the havoc and the crash that was to be.— A deed was done, whose glory Flames from out the simple story, Like the living gleam of diamond in the mine. 'Twas where St. Mary's Ferry In sweet summer makes so merry, 'Twixt St. Helen's fortressed isle and Montreal, There, on an April morning,— As if in haughty scorning Of the tale soft Zephyr told in passing by— Firm and hard, like road of Roman, Under team of sturdy yeoman, Or the guns, the ice lay smooth, and bright, and cold. And watching its resistance To the forces in the distance That nearer and yet nearer ever rolled, [!-- Begin Page 87 --] Warning off who tempt the crossing, All too soon so wildly tossing, Stood a party of Old England's Twenty-Fourth. While as yet they gazed in wonder, Sudden boomed the awful thunder That proclaimed the mighty conqueror at hand. O then the fierce uplifting! The trembling, and the rifting! The tearing, and the grinding, and the throes! The chaos and careering, The toppling and the rearing, The crashing and the dashing of the floes! At such an awful minute A glance,—the horror in it!— Showed a little maiden midway twixt the shores, With hands a-clasp and crying. And, amid the masses, trying,— Vainly trying—to escape on either hand. O child so rashly daring! Who thy dreadful peril sharing Shall, to save thee, tempt the terrors of the flood That roaring, leaping, swirling, And continuously whirling, Threats to whelm in frightful deeps thy tender form! The helpless soldiers, standing On a small precarious landing, Think of nothing but the child and her despair, When a voice as from the Highest,— To the child he being nighest— Falls "Quick-march!" upon the ear of Sergeant Neill. O blessed sense of duty! As on banderole of duty His unswerving eye he fixes on the child; And straight o'er floe and fissure, Fragments yielding to his pressure, Toppling berg, and giddy block, he takes his way; [!-- Begin Page 88 --] Sometimes climbing, sometimes crawling. Sometimes leaping, sometimes falling, Till at last he stands where cowers the weeping child. Then with all a victor's bearing. As in warlike honours sharing, With the child all closely clasped upon his breast, O'er floe and hummock taking Any step for safety making, On he goes, till they who watch can see no more. For both glass and light are failing. As the ice-pack, slowly sailing, Bears him onward past the shore of far Longueil. "Lost!" his comrades cry, and turning. Eyes cast down, and bosoms burning, Gain the shelter of their quiet barrack home; Where, all night, the tortured father Clasps the agonizing mother. In the mute embrace of hopelessness and dread. O the rapid alternations When the loud reverberations Of the evening gun boom forth the hour of rest! The suffering and the sorrow! The praying for the morrow! The fears, the hopes, that tear the parents breasts! And many a word is spoken At the mess, so sadly broken, Of the men who mourn their comrade brave and true And many a tear-drop glistens, Where a watching mother listens To the tumult of the ice along the shore. And ever creeping nearer, Children hold each other dearer, In the gaps of slumber broken by its roar. Twice broke the rosy dawning Of a sunny April morning, [!-- Begin Page 89 --] And Hope had drooped her failing wings, to die; When o'er the swelling river, Like an arrow from a quiver, Came the news of rescue, safety, glad return; And the mother, as from Heaven, Clasped her treasure, newly-given; And the father wrung the hand of Sergeant Neill: Who shrunk from their caressing, Nor looked for praise or blessing, But straight returned to duty and his post. And this the grateful story, To others' praise and glory, That the Sergeant told his comrades round the fire. "Far down the swelling river, To the ocean flowing ever, With its teeming life of porpoise, fish, and seal, There hardy, brave, and daring, Dwells the habitant; nor caring Save to make his frugal living by his skill. Nor heeds he of the weather, For scale, and fur, and feather, Lay their tribute in his hand the year around. On the sunny April morning, That the ice had given warning Of the havoc and the crash that was to be, Stood Pierre, Louis, gazing, Their prayers to Mary raising, For a season full of bounty from the sea. And when the light was failing, And the ice-pack, slowly-sailing, Crashing, tumbling, roaring, thundering, passed them by, Their quick eye saw with wonder, On the masses torn asunder, An unfortunate who drifted to his doom. [!-- Begin Page 90 --] "O then the exclamations! The rapid preparations! The launching of canoes upon the wave! The signalling and shouting!— Death and disaster flouting— The anxious haste, the strife, a human life to save Across the boiling surges, Each man his light bark urges, Though death is in the error of a stroke; And paddling, poising, drifting, O'er the floes the light shell lifting, The gallant fellows reach the whirling pack: And from the frightful danger, They save the worn-out stranger. And oh, to see the nursling in his arms! And oh, the pious caring, The sweet and tender faring, From the gentle hands of Marie and Louise! And the pretty, smiling faces, As the travellers take their places To return again to those who weep their loss. And the Sergeant's story ending, His head in rev'rence bending, He cried "God bless for ever all noble souls like these!" But cheer on cheer resounded, Till the officers, astounded At their mess, upon their sword-hilts clapped their hands. And the plaudits rose still higher, When they joined with martial fire, In the cry "God bless the Twenty-Fourth, and its gallant Sergeant Neill!" |