"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 gra.s.s, The morning breezes swung The honeysuckle and the rose, Above, whose sweetness hung.

The fritil' b.u.t.terfly, the bee, Whose early labours cheer, And point the happy industry That marks the opening year.

The cheerful robin's st.u.r.dy 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 b.u.t.terfly 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!"