Laura Secord, the heroine of 1812 Part 21

THE EMIGRANT'S SONG.

I.

No work, no home, no wealth have I, But Mary loves me true, And, for her sake, upon my knees I'd beg the wide world through: For her sweet eyes look into mine With fondness soft and deep; My heart's entranced, and I could die Were death a conscious sleep.

II.

But life is work, and work is life, And life's the way to heaven, And hand-in-hand we'd like to go The road that G.o.d has given.

And England, dear old Motherland, Has plenty mouths to feed Without her sons and daughters fair, Whose strength is as their need.

III.

To Canada! To Canada!

To that fair land I'll roam, And till the soil with heart of grace, For Mary and a home.

Hurrah for love! Hurrah for hope!

Hurrah for industry!

Hurrah for bonnie Canada, And her bonnie maple tree!

TO THE INDIAN SUMMER.

And art thou come again, sweet Indian maid!

How beautiful thou art where thou dost stand, With step arrested, on the bridge that joins The Past and Future--thy one hand waving Farewell to Summer, whose fond kiss hath set Thy yellow cheeks aglow, the other stretched To greet advancing Winter!

Nor can thy veil, tissue diaphanous Of crimsoned haze, conceal thy l.u.s.trous eyes;-- Those eyes in whose dark depths a tear-drop lurks Ready to fall, for Beauty loved and lost.

From thy point gazing, maiden, let us, too, Once more behold the panorama fair Of the lost year. See where, far down yon slope That meets the sun, doth quick advance gay Spring, His dainty fingers filled with swelling buds: O'er his wreathed head, among the enlacing trees, The merry birds flit in and out, to choose A happy resting-place; and singing rills Dwell on his praise. Gladly his laughing eyes Rest on fair Summer's zone set thick with flowers, That chide their own profusion as, tiptoe, And arm outstretched, she reaches to restore The fallen nestling, venturous and weak: While many a nursling claims her tender care.

Beneath her smile all Nature doth rejoice, And breaks into a song that sweeps the plain Where now the swarthy Autumn, girded close, Gathers his yellow sheaves and juicy fruit To overflowing garners; measure full, And blest to grateful souls. Through the low air A myriad wings circle in restless sort; And from the rustling woods there comes a sound Of dropping nuts and acorns--welcome store To little chipmunk and to squirrel blithe: Dependants small on Nature's wide largesse.

How doth the enchanting picture fill our souls With faith! Sweet Indian maid, we turn with thee And greet gray Winter with a trustful smile.

IN JUNE.

I cannot sleep, and morning's earliest light, All soft and rosy, tempts my restlessness To ask from Nature what of peace she gives.

I gaze abroad, and all my soul is moved At that strange calm that floats o'er earth at rest.

The silver sickle of the summer moon Hangs on the purple east. The morning star, Like a late watcher's lamp, pales in the dawn.

Yonder, the lake, that 'neath the midday sun All restless glows and burns like burnished shield, Lies as a child at rest with curtain drawn.

The forest trees are still. The babbling creek Flows softly through the copse and glides away; And the fair flowers, that lie as thick and sweet As posies at a bridal, sleep quietly.

No early breeze his perfumed wings unfolds.

No painted b.u.t.terfly to pleasure wakes.

The bees, whose busy hum pervades the hours Through all the sultry day, keep yet the hive.

And, save the swallow, whose long line of works Beneath each gable, points to labours vast, No bird yet stirs. Upon the dewy mead The kine repose; the active horse lies p.r.o.ne; And the white ewes doze o'er their tender lambs, Like village mothers with their babes at breast.

So still, so fair, so calm, the morning broods, That, while I know the gairish day will come, And bring its clouds of gnat-like stinging cares, Rest steals into my heart, and gentle peace.

LIVINGSTONE.

OBIT MAY 1ST, 1883.

Sleep now and take thy rest, thou mighty dead!

Thy work is done--thy grand and glorious work.

Not "Caput Nili" shall thy trophy be.

But _broken slave-sticks and a riven chain_.

As the man Moses, thy great prototype, s.n.a.t.c.hed, by the hand of G.o.d, his groaning millions From out the greedy clutch of Egypt's despot; So hast thou done for Afric's toiling sons: Hast s.n.a.t.c.hed its peoples from the poisonous fangs Of hissing Satan, veiled in commerce foul.

For this thy fame shall ring; for this thy praise Shall be in every mouth for ever. Ay, Thy true human heart hath here its guerdon-- A continent redeemed from slavery.-- To this, how small the other! Yet 'twas great.

Ah, not in vain those long delays, those groans Wrung from thy patient soul by obstacle, The work of peevish man; these were the checks From that Hand guiding, that led thee all the way.

_He_ willed thy soul should vex at tyranny; Thine ear should ring with murdered women's shrieks, That torturing famine should thy footsteps clog; That captive's broken hearts should ache thine own.

And Slavery--that villain plausible-- That thief Gehazi!--He stripped before thine eyes And showed him all a leper, foul, accursed.

_He_ touched thy lips, and every word of thine Vibrates on chords whose deep electric thrill Shall never cease till that wide wound be healed.

And then He took thee home. Ay, home, great heart!

Home to _His_ home, where never envious tongue, Nor vile detraction, nor base ingrat.i.tude, Nor cold neglect, shall sting the quiv'ring heart.

Thou endedst well. One step from earth to Heaven, When His voice called "Friend, come up higher."

ON SEEING THE ENGRAVING

"THE FIRST VISIT OF QUEEN VICTORIA TO HER WOUNDED SOLDIERS ON THEIR RETURN FROM THE CRIMEA."

Yes, go to them, the brave, the tried, the hurt-- 'Tis very fitting so! _We_ cannot go-- Some scores of million souls--to tell them all We think and feel: To ease the burden of our laden hearts; To give the warm grasp of our British hands In strong a.s.surance of our praise and love; Of our deep grat.i.tude, to them, our friends, Our _brothers_, who for us toiled, suffered, bled: And left, as we, their dead upon the field, Their comrades tried and true, around Scutari.

Go to them, then, dear Queen,'tis very fitting so!

_Thy_ hand can clasp for _ours. Thy_ voice express _Our_ hearts.

We send thee as our _best_, as so we ought; We send thee as our _dearest_, as thou art; We send thee our _elect_, perfect to fill The office thou hast chosen for our sakes.

A gentle woman thou, and therefore tender:-- A loving wife, and therefore sympathetic:-- A mother, thou, and therefore patient:-- Is there a son among those wounded men Has made his mother sad? Thy tear will soften him.

Is there a husband kept from wife and bairns?

Thy smile will comfort him.

Is there a lonely one with none to love?

He'll warm beneath thy glance, his dear Queen's glance; And--soldiers all--they'll all forget their pains, And long to fight again, even to fall, for thee.

And if for thee, for us; us, who would clasp Their thin worn hands in ours, and smile our thanks, And speak our praise of them, and heal their wounds With gentlest care, each, for himself, if so We might thus ease our o'er-full hearts.

Yet happy are we still in this, nay, happier,-- Thou being that _our best; our dearest;_ _Our elect; perfect epitome_ _Of all we would_--that thou dost go to them.

_Great Western Hotel, Liverpool, June 9, 1880_.