Laura Secord, the heroine of 1812 Part 29

THE HOUSE OF CARDS.

How softly glide Philemon's happy days Within the cot where once his father dwelt Peaceful as he!

Here with his gentle wife and st.u.r.dy boys, In rural quietude, he tills his farm; Gathers his harvest, or his garden tends.

Here sweet domestic joys together shared Crown every evening, whether 'neath the trees The smiling summer draws the table forth: Or round the cosy hearth the winter cold With crackling f.a.ggot blazing makes their cheer.

Here do the careful parents ever give Counsels of virtuous knowledge to their sons.

The father with a story points his speech, The mother with a kiss.

Of different tastes, the boys: the elder one, Grave, studious, reads and thinks the livelong day; The younger, sprightly, gay, and graceful, too, Leaps, laughs incessant, and in games delights.

One evening, as their wont, at father's side, And near a table where their mother sewed, The elder Rollin read. The younger played: Small care had he for Rome's ambitious deeds, Or Parthian prowess; his whole mind was set To build a house of cards, his wit sharp-drawn To fit the corners neatly. He, nor speaks, Nor scarce may breathe, so great his anxious care.

But suddenly the reader's voice is heard Self-interrupting: "Papa, pray tell me why Some warriors are called Conquerors, and some The Founders, of an Empire? What doth make The points of difference in the simple terms?"

In careful thought the father sought reply: When, radiant with delight, his younger son, After so much endeavour, having placed His second stage, cries out, "Tis done!" But he, The elder, harshly chides his brother's glee, Strikes the frail tenement, and so destroys The fruits of patient toil: The younger weeps: And then the father thus: "Oh, my dear son, Thy brother is the Founder of a realm, Thou the fell Conqueror."--_Florian_.

THE BULLFINCH AND THE RAVEN.

In separate cages hung, the same kind roof Sheltered a bullfinch and a raven bold, The one with song mellifluous charmed the house; The other's cries incessant wearied all.

With loud hoa.r.s.e voice he screamed for bread and meat And cheese; the which they quickly brought, in hope To stop thereby his brawling tongue.

The finch Did nought but sing, and never bawled and begged; So they forgot him. Oft the pretty bird Nor food nor water had, and they who praised His song the loudest took the smallest care To fill his fount. And yet they loved him well, But thought not on his needs.

One day they found him dead within his cage, "Ah, horror! and he sang so well!" they cry, "What can it be he died of? 'Tis, indeed A dreadful pity."

The raven still screamed on, and nothing lacked.--_Florian_.

THE WASP AND THE BEE.

Within the chalice of a flower A bee "improved the shining hour,"

Whom, when she saw, a wasp draw near, And sought to gain the fair one's ear, With tender praise: "Oh, sister mine-- (For love and trust that name entwine)"

But ill it pleased the haughty bee, Who answered proudly: "Sisters!--we?

Since when, I pray you, dates the tie?"

With angry warmth the wasp's reply Came fuming forth--"Life-long, indeed.

In semblant points all eyes may read The fact. Observe me if you please.

Your wings, are they not such as these?

Mine is your figure, mine your waist, And if you used with proper taste Your sting, as I do, we agree In that."

"'Tis true," replies the bee, "Each bears a weapon; in its use The difference lies. For fierce abuse, And insolence your dart doth serve.

Mine gives the chastis.e.m.e.nt that these deserve, And while you irritate your dearest friend; I take good heed myself, but to defend."--_Florian_.

TRANSLATIONS

A MEMORY OF THE HEROES OF 1760.

FROM THE FRENCH OF P. LE MAY.

O ye who tread with heedless feet This dust once laid with heroes' blood, A moment turn your backward glance To years of dread inquietude: When wars disturbed our peaceful fields; When mothers drew a sobbing breath; When the great river's hilly marge Resounded with a cry of death.

Then, full of fire, the heroes sprang To save our heritage and laws.

They conquered! 'twas a holiday.

Alas, the last in such a cause!

b.l.o.o.d.y and shamed, the flag of France Perforce recrossed the widening seas; The sad Canadian mourned his hopes, And cherished bitter memories.

But n.o.ble he despite his woe!

Before his lords he proudly bends, Like some tall oak that storms may shake, And bow, but never, never rend.

And oft he dreams a happy dream, And sees a flag, with lilies sown, Come back whence comes the rising Sun, To float o'er landscapes all his own.

Oh when the south wind on its wings Bears to his ear strange sounds afar, To him they seem the solemn chant Of triumph after clam'rous war.

Those echoes weird of gallant strife E'en stir the coffined warrior-dead, As stirs a nation's inmost heart At some proud pageant n.o.bly led.

O France, once more 'neath Western skies, We see thy standards proudly wave!

And Mexico's high ramparts fall Before thy squadrons, true and brave.

Peace shalt thou to the land restore; For fetters shalt give back the crown; And with thy shining sword shalt hurl The base usurper from the throne.

Hear ye, how in their ancient urns The ashes of our heroes wake?

Thus greet they ye, fair sons of morn, For this their solemn silence break.

They greet ye, whose renown hath reached Past star on star to highest heaven!

Ye on whose brow their halo sits, To ye their altar shall be given!

Arise, immortal phalanxes, Who fell upon a glorious day!

Your century of mourning weeds Posterity would take away.

Arise and see! our woods and fields No longer nourish enemies!

Whom once ye fought are brothers now, One law around us throws its ties.

And who shall dare our homesteads touch, That for our heritage ye gave:-- And who shall drive us from the sh.o.r.es To which your blood the verdure gave?-- E'en they shall find the oppressed will rise More powerful for the foe withstood; And ever for such heinous crime Shall pay the forfeit with their blood.

Ye, our defenders in the past, Your names are still a household word!

In childhood's ear old age recounts The toils your hardy youth endured.

And on the field of victory Hath grat.i.tude your memory graved!

In during bra.s.s your story lives A glory to the centuries saved!

THE SONG OF THE CANADIAN VOLTIGEURS.

FROM THE FRENCH OF P. LE MAY.