Laura Secord, the heroine of 1812 Part 18

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!

"G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+nes in our history.

He takes the thin and faded hand, He seats him at her side, Of all that gay and n.o.ble 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 G.o.ds incline?

VII.