Roughing It in the Bush

by Susanna Moodie

The political struggles that convulsed the country were scarcely echoed in the depths of those old primeval forests, though the expulsion of Mackenzie from Navy Island, and the burning of the Caroline by Captain Drew, had been discussed on the farthest borders of civilisation. With a tribute to the gallant conduct of that brave officer, I will close this chapter:—

THE BURNING OF THE CAROLINE

A sound is on the midnight deep—
The voice of waters vast;
And onward, with resistless sweep,
The torrent rushes past,
In frantic chase, wave after wave,
The crowding surges press, and rave
Their mingled might to cast
Adown Niagara's giant steep;
The fretted billows foaming leap
With wild tumultuous roar;
The clashing din ascends on high,
In deaf'ning thunders to the sky,
And shakes the rocky shore.
Hark! what strange sounds arise—
'Tis not stern Nature's voice—
In mingled chorus to the skies!
The waters in their depths rejoice.
Hark! on the midnight air
A frantic cry uprose;
The yell of fierce despair,
The shout of mortal foes;
And mark yon sudden glare,
Whose red, portentous gleam
Flashes on rock and stream
With strange, unearthly light;
What passing meteor's beam
Lays bare the brow of night?
From yonder murky shore
What demon vessel glides,
Stemming the unstemm'd tides,
Where maddening breakers roar
In hostile surges round her path,
Or hiss, recoiling from her prow,
That reeling, staggers to their wrath;
While distant shores return the glow
That brightens from her burning frame,
And all above—around—below—
Is wrapt in ruddy flame?
Sail on!—sail on!—No mortal hand
Directs that vessel's blazing course;
The vengeance of an injured land
Impels her with resistless force
'Midst breaking wave and fiery gleam,
O'er-canopied with clouds of smoke;
Midway she stems the raging stream,
And feels the rapids' thundering stroke;
Now buried deep, now whirl'd on high,
She struggles with her awful doom,—
With frantic speed now hurries by
To find a watery tomb.
Lo, poised upon the topmost surge,
She shudders o'er the dark abyss;
The foaming waters round her hiss
And hoarse waves ring her funeral dirge;
The chafing billows round her close;
But ere her burning planks are riven,
Shoots up one ruddy spout of fire,—
Her last farewell to earth and heaven.
Down, down to endless night she goes!
So may the traitor's hope expire,
So perish all our country's foes!
Destruction's blazing star
Has vanish'd from our sight;
The thunderbolt of war
Is quench'd in endless night;
Nor sight, nor sound of fear
Startles the listening ear;
Naught but the torrent's roar,
The dull, deep, heavy sound,
From out the dark profound,
Echoes from shore to shore.
Where late the cry of blood
Rang on the midnight air,
The mournful lapsing of the flood,
The wild winds in the lonely wood,
Claim sole dominion there.
To thee, high-hearted Drew!
And thy victorious band
Of heroes tried and true
A nation's thanks are due.
Defender of an injured land!
Well hast thou taught the dastard foe
That British honour never yields
To democratic influence, low,
The glory of a thousand fields.
Justice to traitors, long delay'd,
This night was boldly dealt by thee;
The debt of vengeance thou hast paid,
And may the deed immortal be.
Thy outraged country shall bestow
A lasting monument of fame,
The highest meed of praise below—
A British patriot's deathless name!

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CHAPTER XXIV — THE WHIRLWIND

(For the poem that heads this chapter, I am indebted to my brother, Mr. Strickland, of Douro, C.W.)

Dark, heavy clouds were gathering in the west,
Wrapping the forest in funereal gloom;
Onward they roll'd, and rear'd each livid crest,
Like Death's murk shadows frowning o'er earth's tomb.
From out the inky womb of that deep night
Burst livid flashes of electric flame.
Whirling and circling with terrific might,
In wild confusion on the tempest came.
Nature, awakening from her still repose,
Shudders responsive to the whirlwind's shock,
Feels at her mighty heart convulsive throes,
And all her groaning forests to earth's bosom rock.
But hark!—What means that hollow, rushing sound,
That breaks the death-like stillness of the morn?
Red forked lightnings fiercely glare around,
Sharp, crashing thunders on the winds are borne,
And see yon spiral column, black as night,
Rearing triumphantly its wreathing form;
Ruin's abroad, and through the murky light—
Drear desolation marks the spirit of the storm.

S.S.

The 19th of August came, and our little harvest was all safely housed. Business called Moodie away for a few days to Cobourg. Jenny had gone to Dummer, to visit her friends, and J. E—— had taken a grist of the new wheat, which he and Moodie had threshed the day before, to the mill. I was consequently left alone with the children, and had a double portion of work to do. During their absence it was my lot to witness the most awful storm I ever beheld, and a vivid recollection of its terrors was permanently fixed upon my memory.