_Mrs. Secord_. I do.

_Widow_. There is a little path leads down To a small creek, cross that, and keep the sun Behind you half a mile, and then you strike The bush, uncleared and wild. Good G.o.d, to think--

_Mrs. Secord_. Think not, but pray, and if a chance occurs Send aid to poor Fitzgibbon. Little help Just in the nick of time oft turns the scale Of fortune. G.o.d bless you, dear! Good bye.

[_They embrace with tears. Exit_ MRS. SECORD.

SCENE 2.--_A beautiful glade_.

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD.--_After scanning the spot searchingly, she seats herself on a fallen trunk_.

_Mrs. Secord_. This spot is surely safe; here I will rest, For unaccustomed service tires my limbs, And I have travelled many a weary rood More than a crow-line measures; ups and downs Absorb so many steps that nothing add To distance. Faint am I, too, and thirsty.

Hist! hist! ye playful breezes that do make Melodious symphonies and rippling runs Among the pines and aspens, hear I not A little tinkling rill, that somewhere hides Its sweet beneficence 'mid ferns and moss?

[_She rises and looks about_.

Ay, here it is: a tiny brilliancy That glances at the light, as careful, still, To keep the pure translucency that first It caught from Heaven. Give me, oh give, sweet rill, A few cool drops to slake my parching throat.

Fair emblem truly thou of those meek hearts That thread the humblest haunts of suffering earth With Christ-like charities, and keep their souls Pure and untaint, by Heavenly communings.

[_She reseats herself, and contemplates the scene_.

O this is beautiful! Here I could lie-- Were earth a myth and all her trials nought-- And dream soft nothings all a summer's day.

In this fair glade were surely celebrate The nuptials of the year: and for her gift, Fair Flora, lightly loitering on the wing Of Zephyrus, tossed all her corbel out, Filling the air with bloom.

From yonder copse, With kindling eye and hasty step, emerged The gladsome Spring, with leafy honours crowned, His following a troop of skipping lambs: And o'er yon hill, blushing for joy, approached His happy bride, on billowy odours borne, And every painted wing in tendance bent.

Procession beautiful! Yet she how fair!-- The lovely Summer, in her robes of blue, Bedecked with every flower that Flora gave,-- Sweet eglantine and meek anemone, Bright, nodding columbine and wood-star white, Blue violets, like her eyes, and pendant gems Of dielytra, topaz-tipped and gold, Fragrant arbutus, and hepatica, With thousands more. Her wreath, a coronet Of opening rose-buds twined with lady-fern; And over all, her bridal-veil of white,-- Some soft diaph'nous cloudlet, that mistook Her robes of blue for heaven.-- And I could dream That, from his lofty throne beholding, Great Sol, on wings of glowing eve, came down In gracious haste, to bless the nuptials.

(_She pauses_.) And shall this land, That breathes of poesy from every sod, Indignant throb beneath the heavy foot Of jeering renegade? at best a son His mother blushes for--shall he, bold rebel Entwine its glories in defiant wreath Above his boastful brow, and flaunt it in Her face, rejoicing in her woe? No! No!

This priceless gem shall ever deck her crown, And grace its setting with a ray more pure For that, nor flood, nor fire, can flaw its heart.

Yes, Canada, thy sons, at least, maintain The ancient honour of their British blood, In that their loyalty contracts no stain From proffered gifts or gold.

But I must on. I may not loiter, while So much depends on me.

(_She rises to proceed, and at the first step a rattlesnake rears up at her, hissing and springing its rattles. She recoils in fear, but remembering the cowardly nature of the creatures, throws sticks at it, and it glides swiftly away_.)

Vile reptile!

Base as vile, and cowardly as base; A straight descendant thou of him, methinks, Man's ancient foe, or else his paraphrase.

Is there no Eden that thou enviest not?

No purity thou would'st not smirch with gall?

No rest thou would'st not break with agony?

Aye, Eve, our mother-tongue avenges thee, For there is nothing mean, or base, or vile, That is not comprehended in the name Of SNAKE!

[_Exit_ MRS. SECORD.

SCENE 3--_A thick wood through which runs a forest path, leading to a high beech ridge_.

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD, _walking as quickly as the underbrush will allow_.

_Mrs. Secord_. How quiet are the woods!

The choir of birds that daily ushers in The rosy dawn with bursts of melody, And swells the joyful train that waits upon The footsteps of the sun, is silent now, Dismissed to greenwood bowers. Save happy cheep Of callow nestling, that closer snugs beneath The soft and sheltering wing of doting love,--Like croon of sleeping babe on mother's breast--No sound is heard, but, peaceful, all enjoy Their sweet siesta on the waving bough, Fearless of ruthless wind, or gliding snake.

So peaceful lies Fitzgibbon at his post, Nor dreams of harm. Meanwhile the foe Glides from his hole, and threads the darkling route, In hope to coil and crush him.

Ah, little recks he that a woman holds The power to draw his fangs!

And yet some harm must come, some blood must flow, In spite of all my poor endeavour.

O War, how much I hate thy wizard arts, That, with the clash and din of bra.s.s and steel, O'erpowers the voice of pleading reason; And with thy lurid light, in monstrous rays Enfolds the symmetry of human love, Making a brother seem a phantom or a ghoul!

Before thy deadly scowl kind peace retires, And seeks the upper skies.

O, cruel are the hearts that cry "War!" "War!"

As if War were an angel, not a fiend; His gilded chariot, a triumphal car, And not a Juggernauth whose wheels drop gore; His offerings, flowers and fruit, and chaplets gay, And not shrieks, tears, and groans of babes and women.

And yet hath War, like Juggernauth, a hold, A fascination, for humanity, That makes his vot'ries martyrs for his sake.

Even I, poor weakling, march in keeping-time To that grand music that I heard to-day, Though children played it, and I darkly feel Its burden is resistance physical.

'Tis strange that simple tones should move one so!

What is it, what, this sound, this air, this breath The wind can blow away, Nor most intricate fetters can enchain?

What component of being doth it touch That it can raise the soul to ecstasy, Or plunge it in the lowest depth of horror?

Freeze the stopt blood, or send it flowing on In pleasant waves?

Can draw soft tears, or concentrate them hard To form a base whereon the martyr stands To take his leap to Heaven?

What is this sound that, in Niagara's roar Brings us to Sinai; Or in the infant's prayer to Him, "Our Father?"

That by a small inflection wakes the world, And sends its squadroned armies on To victory or death; Or bids it, peaceful, rest, and grow, and build?

That rea.s.sures the frighted babe; or starts The calm philosopher, without a word?

That, in the song of little bird speaks glee; Or in a groan strikes mortal agony?

That, in the wind, brings us to shipwreck, death.

And dark despair; Or paints us blessed islands far from care or pain?

Then what is sound?

The chord it vibrates with its magic touch Is not a sense to man peculiar, An independent string formed by that breath That, breathed into the image corporate, Made man a living soul.

No, for all animate nature owns Its sovereign power. Brutes, birds, fish, reptiles, all That breathe, are awed or won by means of sound.

Therefore, it must be of the corporate, corporeal And, if so, _why then the body lives again_, Despite what sceptics say; for sound it is Will summon us before that final bar To give account of deeds done in the flesh.

The spirit cannot thus be summoned, Since ent.i.ty it hath not sound can strike.

Let sceptics rave! I see no difficulty That He, who from primordial atoms formed A human frame, can from the dust awake it Once again, marshal the scattered molecules And make immortal, as was Adam.

This body lives! Or else no deep delight Of quiring angels harping golden strings; No voice of Him who calls His children home; No glorious joining in the immortal song Could touch our being But how refined our state!

How changed! Never to tire or grow distraught, Or wish for rest, or sleep, or quietude, But find in absence of these earthly needs A truer Heaven.

O might I rest even now!

These feet grow painful, and the shadows tell Of night and dark approaching, my goal An anxious distance off.

[_She gazes round_.

I'll rest awhile, For yonder height will tax my waning strength, And many a brier all beautiful with bloom Hides many a thorn that will dispute my path Beneath those ancient beeches.

(_She seats herself, and having removed her bonnet, partakes of the refreshment brought from the mill. As she eats, a grieved look comes upon her face, and she wipes away a tear_.)

The sun leans towards the west: O darlings mine, E'en now, perchance, ye sit in order round The evening board, your father at the head, And Polly in my place making his tea, While he pretends to eat, and cheats himself.

And thou, O husband, dearest, might I lay My, weary head as oft upon thy breast!-- But no (_she rises_), I dare not think--there is above A Love will guard me, and, O blessed thought, Thee, too, and they our darlings.

[_She proceeds towards the beech ridge, but is stayed at the foot by a rapid-running stream_.