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Read Ebook: Laura Secord the heroine of 1812: A Drama; and Other Poems by Curzon Sarah Anne
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Ebook has 352 lines and 26831 words, and 8 pages
"The difficulties and dangers then, were those of anew, uncleared, pathless country increased by lurking foes, and by wandering, untaught Indians.
"In connection with her chief act of heroism the following anecdote has been told me:--Three American soldiers called at her log house at Queenston to ask for water. One of them said, 'You have a nice place here, missis, when we come for good to this country we'll divide the land, and I'll take this here for my share.' Mrs. Secord was so nettled by the thoughts expressed that although the men were civil and respectful, she replied sharply, 'You scoundrel you, all you'll ever get here will be six feet of earth!'
"When they were gone her heart reproached her for her heat, because the men had not molested her nor her property." "Two days after two of the men returned. They said to Mrs. Secord, 'You were right about the six feet of earth, missis! The third man had been killed."
In speaking of the heroine, Mr. James B. Secord, of Niagara, says in a letter to me, "My grandmother was of a modest disposition, and did not care to have her exploit mentioned, as she did not think she had done any thing extraordinary. She was the very last one to mention the affair, and unless asked would never say any thing about it."
This noble-minded and heroic woman died in 1868, aged ninety-three years. She lies in Drummondville Churchyard, by the side of the husband she loved so well. Nothing but a simple headstone, half defaced, marks the place where the sacred ashes lie. But surely we who enjoy the happiness she so largely secured for us, we who have known how to honour Brock and Brant, will also know how to, honour Tecumseh and LAURA SECORD; the heroine as well as the heroes of our Province--of our common Dominion--and will no longer delay to do it, lest Time should snatch the happy opportunity from us.
S. A. C.
TORONTO, 4th August, 1887.
NOTE.--The headstone of Laura Secord is three feet high, and eighteen inches wide, and has the following:
The headstone of her husband has the following:
Universally and deservedly lamented as a sincere Friend, a kind and indulgent Parent, and an affectionate Husband.
LAURA SECORD:
THE HEROINE OF THE WAR OF 1812.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
LAURA SECORD: THE HEROINE OF THE WAR OF 1812
What have you got to feed these fellows, Flos?
When the Creator had laid out the deeps, The great illimitable fields of sad-eyed space, A weighty bag upon His neck He threw, Whence issued sound confused of huddled stars;
And, plunging in the sack His mighty hand, He traversed all the ether's wondrous plain With slow and measured step, as doth a sower, Sowing the gloomy void with many suns.
He tossed them--tossed them--some in fantastic groups, And some in luminous; some terrible. And 'neath the Sower's steps, whose grain was stars, The furrows of the sky, ecstatic, smoked.
He tossed them--tossed them--out of His whirling hand, Plenteous in every place, by full broad casts Measured to rhythmic beat; and golden stars Flew o'er the wide expanse like firefly swarms.
"Away! away!" cried He of worlds the Sower: "Away, ye stars! spring in the wastes of heaven; Broider its purple fields with your fair gems; Tuneful, elated, gladsome, take your course.
"Go, wave of fire, into a darksome night, And there make joy, and there the pleasant day! And launch into the depths immeasurable Quick, quivering darts of glowing light and love!
"I will that all within your bounds shall shine, Be glad, be prosperous, happy, blest, content, Shall sing for ever 'Glory be to Thee, Creator, Father, Sower, who with suns Hast filled infinity!'"
Thus He dismissed the stars, weighted with life, Careering round their calm Creator's feet As, in a desert place July has scorched, The grains of sand may cloud the traveller's steps.
And glittered all, and sang; and, hindered not, Upon their axes turned, constant and sure; Their million million voices, strong and deep, Bursting in great hosannas to the skies.
And all was happiness and right, beauty and strength; And every star heard all her radiant sons With songs of love ensphere her mother-breast; And all blessed Life. And blessed the Highest Heaven.
Now, when His bag of stars he had deplete, When all the dark with orbs of fire was strown, The Sower found at bottom, 'twixt two folds, A little bit of shining sun, chipped off.
And wondering, knowing not what sphere unknown Revolved in crimson space all incomplete, The great Creator, at a puff, spun off This tiny bit of sun far into space;
Then, mounting high up to His scarlet throne, Beyond the mist of thickly scattered worlds, Like a great crowned king whose proud eye burns At hearing from afar His people's voice, He listens,
And He hears The mighty Alleluia of the stars, The choirs of glowing spheres in whirling flood Of song and high apotheosis, All surging to His feet in incense clouds.
He sees eternity with rapture thrilled; He sees in one prolonged diapason The organ of the universe, vehement, roll For ever songs of praise to Him, the Sower.
But suddenly He pales. From starry seas A smothered cry mounts to the upper skies; It rises, swells, grows strong; prevailing o'er All the ovation of the joyful spheres.
From that dim atom of the chipped orb It comes; from wretches left forsaken, sad, Who weep the Mother-star, incessant sought And never found from that gray point of sky.
"We are the banished ones; the exile band; The only race whose eyes are filled with tears. And if the waters of our seas be salt, 'Twas our forefathers tears that made them so.
"Be He Anathema, the Sower of Light! Be He Anathema whom worlds adore!-- If to our native star He join us not Be He accursed, through all creation cursed, for aye!"
Then rose the God from His great scarlet throne, And gentle, moved, weeping as we, He stretched His two bright arms over the flat expanse, And in a voice of thunder launched reply:--
"Morsel of Sun, calling thyself the Earth:-- Chrysalides on her grey bounds supine:-- Humanity--sing! for I give you Death, The Comforter, he who shall lead you back Safe to your Star of Light,
And this is why--lofty, above mishap, The Poet, made for stars of molten gold, Spurns earth; his eyes; fixed on the glowing heavens, Toward which he soon shall take his freer flight.
THE EMIGRANT MOUNTAINEER.
FROM THE FRENCH OF CHATEAUBRIAND.
How doth fond memory oft return To that fair spot where I was born! My sister, those were happy days In lovely France. O, country mine, my latest gaze Shall turn to France!
Remember'st thou with what fond pride, Our lowly cottage hearth beside, She clasped us to her gladsome breast-- Our dearest mother; While on her hair so white, we pressed Kisses, together?
My sister, canst thou not recall Dore, that bathed the castle wall, And that old Moorish tower, war-worn And grey, From whence the gong struck out each morn The break of day.
The tranquil lake doth mem'ry bring, Where swallows poised on lightest wing; The breeze by which the supple reed Was bent,-- The setting sun whose glory filled The firmament?
Rememberest thou that tender wife, Dearest companion of my life? While gathering wild flowers in the grove So sweet, Heart clung to heart, and Helen's love Flew mine to meet.
O give my Helen back to me, My mountain, and my old oak tree! Memory and pain, where'er I rove, Entwine, Dear country, with my heart's deep love Around thy shrine.
FROM "LIGHTS AND SHADES."
FROM THE FRENCH OF VICTOR HUGO.
When on the cliff, or in the wood I muse the summer evening by, And realize the woes of life, I contemplate Eternity.
And through my shadow-chequered lot GOD meets my earnest, gazing eye; As through the dusk of tangled boughs We catch bright glimpses of the sky.
Yes, when, at last Death claims her own, The spirit bursts the bonds of sense, And--like a nestling--in the tomb Finds pinions that shall bear her thence.
VILLANELLE TO ROSETTE
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