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:
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.