Chapter IV: Act III (1)

SCENE 1.--_Decau's house, a stone edifice of some pretensions. The parlour, with folding doors which now stand a little apart. A sentry is visible, on the other side of them. The parlour windows are barricaded within, but are set open, and a branch of a climbing rose with flowers upon it, swings in. The sun is setting, and gilds the arms that are piled in one corner of the room. A sword in its scabbard lies across the table, near which, in an arm-chair, reclines_ Lieutenant Fitzgibbon, _a tall man of fine presence; in his right hand, which rests negligently on the back of the chair, he holds a newspaper of four pages, "The Times," from which he has been reading. Several elderly weather-beaten non-commissioned officers and privates, belonging to the 49th, 104th, and 8th regiments, together with a few militiamen and two cadets share the society of their superior officer, and all are very much at their ease both in appointments and manner, belts and stocks are unloosed, and some of the men are smoking_.

_Lieut. Fitzgibbon_. 'Tis true, it seems, and yet most horrible; More than five hundred thousand fighting men Crossed with him o'er the front, and not a tenth Remains. Rather than let him find a place For winter quarters, two hundred thousand Happy families had to forsake their homes In dead of winter, and of the ancient seat Of Russian splendour, Rotopschin made a pyre, A blazing pyre of all its precious things: Moscow is burned.

_First Sergeant_. So Boney could but toast his freezing toes
And march back home again: Fine glory that!

_Fitzgibbon_. Sad waste of precious lives for one man's will. But this mishap will seal his fate. The Czar Will see his interest is a strong alliance, And all the Powers will prove too great a match, Even for Buonaparte.

_Second Sergeant_. Where is he now, Lieutenant?

_Fitzgibbon_. In Paris, plotting again, I see; or was
Nine weeks ago.

_First Private_. Yon news coom quick. Now when I were a bairn, that's forty year sin', We heard i' York 'at Merriky refused To pay the taxes, just three munth's arter; An' that wur bonnie toime, fur then t'coaach Tuk but foive daaies ti mak' t' hull waai' doon, Two hunner moile, fra Lunnon.

_Fitzgibbon (still scanning the newspaper)_. Well, Jimmy, here's a man, one Bell, Of Greenock, can send a boat by steam Against the wind and tide, and talks with hope Of making speed equal to both. He's tried it on the Clyde, so we may look For news from England in a month, ere long.

_First Private_. Na, na, sir; noo doant 'e pooak fun at me! Iver he doos ma' I go hang. Why neist They scatterbrain 'ull mayhap send a shep Jest whear tha' loike wi'oot a win' at all. Or promise till 't. 'Twere pity Nelson, noo, He'd noan o' sech at Copenhaagen Mebbe tha' cu'd ha' gott tha' grunded sheps Afloat, an gett moor men to fe'ht them Daans.

_Fitzgibbon_. The fewer men the greater glory, Jim.
Why, man, he got his title by that fight.

_Second Sergeant_. And well deserved it! A finer man Never trod deck, sailor or officer; His voice gave courage, as his eye flashed fire. We would have died for him, and he for us; And when the fight was done he got our rights, Or tried at it. More than old Parker did.

_First Sergeant_. Parker was rich, and so forgot the poor,
But Nelson forgot none.

_Second Private_. He was cliver, too. Dash't! how I laughed, All i' my sleeve o' course. The fight was hot, And getting hotter, for, gad, them Danes can fight! And quite a quarter o' the ships was stuck, The Admiral's among 'em. So Nelson held The squadron at command. Up comes the word, "The signal Thirty-nine is out, sir." Nelson turns, His stump a-goin' as his arm was used Afore he lost it, meets the officer, as says, "Sir, Thirty-nine is out, shall I repeat it?" "No, sir; acknowledge it." Then on he goes. Presently he calls out, "What's flying now?" "The same, sir." So he takes his glass And puts it to his eye, his blind eye, mind you, An' says he, "No signal can I see. No, Ne'er a one." Winking to Ferguson, says he, "I've but one eye, and may be blind sometimes. What! strike off now and lose the day? Not so: My signal keep for 'Closer battle,' flying. That's how I'll answer. Confound the signal! Nail mine to the mast." He won.

_First Militiaman_. Just touch and go for hanging, that.

_Fitzgibbon_. Success ne'er saw a scaffold, Jeremy.

_A Cadet_. Fine-looking fellow Nelson-was, I guess?

_First Sergeant_. To look at? No, a little, thin, pale man With a long queue, one arm, and but one eye, But that a blazer!

_Second Militiaman_. These little uns has lots o' spunk:
Boney's a little un, I've heerd.

_First Private_. Just so: and Wellington ain't big.

_Fitzgibbon (rising and drawing himself to his full height)_. Come, boys, you're getting personal. See me! If none but little men may win renown, I hope I'm two in one, for your sakes. And you forget the lion-hearted Brock.

_All (interrupting him)_. No! no! no!

_Fitzgibbon_. A man of height exceeding any here, And yet whose alt of metred inches Nobly enlarged to full, fair, Saxon mould, And vested in the blazonments of rule, Shewed not so kingly to the obeisant sight As was his soul. Who than ye better knew His bravery; his lofty heroism; His purity, and great unselfish heart? Nature in him betrayed no niggard touch Of corporate or ethereal. Yet I yield That men of lesser mould in outward form Have been as great in deeds of rich renown. But then, I take it, greatness lies not in The flesh, but in the spirit. He is great Who from the quick occasion of the time Strikes out a name. And he is also great Who, in a life-long struggle, throws the foe, And binds on hoary locks the laurel crown. Each is a high exemplar. One with concentrate vigour strikes a blow That rings around the world; the other draws The world round him--his mighty throes And well-contested standpoints win its praise And force its verdict, though bleak indifference-- A laggard umpire--long neglect his post, And often leaves the wrestler's best unnoted, Coming but just in time to mark his thews And training, and so decides: while the loud shock Of unexpected prowess starts him aghast, And from his careless hand snatches the proud award. But mark me, men, he who is ever great Has greatness made his aim-- The sudden blow or long-protracted strife Yields not its secret to the untrained hand. True, one may cast his statue at a heat, But yet the mould was there; And he who chips the marble, bit by bit, Into a noble form, sees all the while His image in the block. There are who make a phantom of their aim-- See it now here, now there, in this, in that, But never in the line of simple duty; Such will accomplish nothing but their shame: For greatness never leaves that thin, straight mark; And, just as the pursuit diverges from it, Greatness evanishes, and notoriety Misleads the suitor. I'd have you think of this.

_All_. Aye, aye, sir.

_Fitzgibbon_. Order the lights, for darkness falls apace,
And I must write.

[_Exit_ First Private.

_Fitzgibbon (cutting the newspaper and handing the halves to the sergeants)_. There, read to the rest, and let me have them back when done with.

_Enter a_ Soldier _with lights_.

[_A voice is heard in the next room, beginning to sing_.

Who's that?

_First Private_. It's Roaring Bill, sir; shall I stop him?

_Fitzgibbon_. No; let him sing.
It cheers our loneliness, and does us good.

_First Sergeant_. Another of his own, I guess; homespun
And rough, like country cloth.

_Fitzgibbon_. Hush! what is that he says?

[_A_ Cadet _gently pushes one of the folding doors
a little wider open_.

_Roaring Bill_. 'Tis but a doleful ditty, boys, With ne'er a chorus; yet I'll be bound You'll hardly quarrel with it.

_A Comrade_. Let's have it, Bill; we ain't red Injuns,
As likes palaver.

_Roaring Bill_--

SONG.

October blasts had strown the wreaths that erstwhile hung so gay,
Above the brows of Queenston Heights where we impatient lay;
Niagara fretted at our feet, as chafing at his post,
And impotence to turn the fleets that bore the aggressive host.

And gray the dawn and cold the morn of Rensselaer's attack,
But warm and true the hearts, though few, that leapt to beat him back.
"On, Forth-ninth! On, volunteers! Give tongue, ye batteries twain!"
Bold Dennis spake: the guns boomed forth, and down he rushed amain.

They sink! They fly! They drop down stream.--Ah, too delusive sight!
A long-abandoned path they find, and gain the wooded height.
The batteries now must guard the shore--above, our struggle lies;
But down they pour, like surging flood, that skill and strength defies.

Down, down, they press us, inch by inch, beyond the village bound,
And there, o'erwhelmed, but not o'ercome, we keep our sullen ground.
Short time we stand. A ringing cheer proclaims our hero nigh;
Our darling leader, noble Brock--hark to his gallant cry!

"Follow me, boys!" the hero cries. We double to the wall--
Waving his gleaming sword on high, he climbs, and follow all;
Impetuous up the mountain side he strides in warlike glee,
All heedless of the leaden hail that whistles from each tree:

For on and up proud Victory lures--we touch her laurel crown--
When by malign, deliberate aim the hero's stricken down.
He falls! We fire, but ah, too late--the murderous work is done.
No more that voice shall cheer us on, with "Vict'ry!" in its tone.

He falls: nor word nor look may cheer young Jarvis' anxious quest;
Among his stricken men he sinks, his hand but seeks his breast.
O, Death, could none but him suffice thy cold, insatiate eye?
Nor knewed'st thou how many there for him would gladly die!

Nor lonely speeds the parting soul, nor lonely stands the bier--
Two forms the bastion-tomb enfolds, two claim the soldier's tear.
"Avenge the General!" was the cry. "AVENGE!" McDonell cries,
And, leading madly up the Height, McDonell falls and dies.

[_Several of the men pass their hands over their eyes;_
MR. JARVIS _goes to the open window, as if to observe
something without_.

_An 8th man_. A mournful ditty to a mournful tune, Yet not unworthy of the heroic theme, Nor of a soldier's heart.

_Mr. Jarvis (in a low voice)_. Indeed, you're right. I thank the singer for his memories, Though sad to me, who caught Brock's latest breath.

_Fitzgibbon_. I did not think there had been such a stroke
Of genius in the lad. (_Another voice_.) But who's this, now?

_Second Cadet_. It's young Jack Kelley, sir; he has a voice,
And emulates old Bill.

_Jack Kelley_ (_with the airs of an amateur_.) Ugh! ugh! I'm
hoarse.
Now mind the coal-box, byes, and sing it up.
"The Jolly Midshipman's" the tune.

SONG.

I.

It was a bold Canadian boy
That loved a winsome girl;
And he was bold as ancient knight,
She, fair as day's own pearl.
And to the greenwood they must go,
To build a home and name,
So he clasped hands with Industry,
For fortune, wealth and fame.

CHORUS

(In which all join, the leader beating time upon his knees with his fists.)

For fortune, wealth and fame,
For fortune, wealth and fame;
So he clasped hands with Industry,
For fortune, wealth and fame.

II.

And when the jocund Spring came in,
He crowned the wedded pair.
And sent them forth with hearts elate
Their wildwood home to share.
For he had built a snug log-house,
Beneath a maple tree;
And his axe had cleared a wide domain,
While store of goods spun she.

CHORUS.

While store of goods spun she,
While store of goods spun she,
And his axe had cleared a wide domain,
While store of goods spun she.

III.

The husband whistles at his plough,
The wife sings at her wheel,
The children wind the shrilly horn
That tells the ready meal.
And should you roam the wide world o'er,
No happier home you'll see,
Than this abode of loving toil
Beneath the maple tree.

CHORUS.

Beneath the maple tree,
Beneath the maple tree,
Than this abode of loving toil
Beneath the maple tree.

_A 49th man_. Hurrah, Jack! that's a good tune,
Let's have the chorus again.

_All_--
Beneath the maple tree,
Beneath the maple tree,
Than this abode of lov--

[_The_ Sentry _challenges, and a_ Corporal _enters and
salutes_ FITZGIBBON.

_Fitzgibbon_. Well, Corporal.

_Corporal_. Sir, here is Mishe-mo-qua and a woman.
They say they've news, and wish to speak with you.

_Fitzgibbon_. Then, Corporal, show them in.

[_Exit_ Corporal.

_Enter_ MRS. SECORD _and the_ Indian Chief, _who salutes_ LIEUT. FITZGIBBON.

_Several Militiamen_ (_in surprise, aside to each other_.) 'Tis Mrs.
Secord, Captain Secord's wife;
What can her errand be? So tired, too,
And in rags.

_Mrs. Secord_ (_courtesying_). You are the Captain, sir?

_Fitzgibbon_. At your service.

_Mrs. Secord_. I bring you news of great importance, sir.

_Fitzgibbon_. I am indebted, madam, for what I see
Has been no common task. Be seated, pray.

[_A Cadet places a chair_.

Chief, will you also rest?

[_He indicates a couch_.

_Mishe-mo-qua_. No. Woman, she
Come far, to tell white chief great words.

_Fitzgibbon_. I thank her much.

_Mrs. Secord_. I came to say that General Dearborn tires. Of his inaction, and the narrow space Around his works, he therefore purposes To fall upon your outpost here, to-night, With an o'erwhelming force, and take your stores:

_Fitzgibbon_. Madam!

_Mrs. Secord_. Five hundred men, with some dragoons and guns, Start e'en to-night, soon as the moon goes down; Lieutenant-Colonel Boerstler in command. A train of waggons, too, is sent for spoil.

_Fitzgibbon_. And may I ask on what authority
To trust such startling news? I know you not.

_Mrs. Secord_. My name is Secord, I'm Captain Secord's wife, Who fought at Queenston Heights, and there received The wounds that leave him now a helpless cripple. Some here may know him.

_Fitzgibbon_. I remember now.

_Mrs. Secord_. We live within the Yankee lines, and hence By victor's right our home is free to them. Last night a sergeant and his new-changed guard Came in and asked for supper; a boy and girl I left to wait on them, seeing the table set With all supplies myself, and then retired. But such their confidence; their talk so loud And free, I could not help but hear some words That raised suspicion; then I listened close And heard, 'mid gibe and jest, the enterprise That was to flout us; make the Loyalist A cringing slave to sneering rebels; make The British lion gnash his teeth with rage;-- The Yankee, hand-on-hip, guffawing loud The while. At once, my British blood was up, Nor had I borne their hated presence more, But for the deeper cause. My husband judged As I did, but his helpless frame forbade His active interference, so I came, For well we knew your risk, warning denied.

_Fitzgibbon_. Alone? You surely did not come alone?

_Mrs. Secord_. Sir, I have walked the whole way through the woods, For fear of spies, braving all other foes. Nor, since at early morn I left St. David's Mill, Until I met your sentry on the ridge,-- Who begged me tell you so, and said "all's well,"-- Spoke I, or saw, a soul. Since then, the chief, Whose senior sent him with me for a guide, Has been my kind protector to your post.

_Fitzgibbon (to the chief_). I thank you, Mishe-mo-qua, and your chief.

(_To Mrs. Secord, bowing_.) But you, oh; madam, how shall I thank you? You have, indeed, performed a woman's part, A gentle deed; yet at expense of more Than woman's fitting means. I am not schooled In courtly phrases, yet may I undertake To thank you heartily, not on our part Alone, but in our good King George's name, For act so kind achieved. Knew he your care For his brave men--I speak for those around-- Of whom some fought for him at Copenhagen, He would convey his thanks, and the Queen's, too-- Who loves all nobleness--in better terms Than I, his humble servant. Affliction Leaves him in our hands to do him justice; And justice 'tis, alike to him and you, To thank you in his name, and in the Regent's.

_The Soldiers_. Hurray! hurray! hurray!

[_They toss up their caps_.

_Mrs. Secord_. Sir, you make quite too much of my poor service, I have but done my duty; and I beg Let me not interrupt your movements now: I would not be an obstacle across The path I made.

_Fitzgibbon_. You add an obligation, madam.

[_At a signal the men from the next room file in_.

(_To the men_.) We've hot work coming, boys. Our good friend here Has walked from Queenston, through the woods, this day, To warn me that a sortie from Fort George Is sent to take this post, and starts e'en now. You, Cummings, mount--you know the way--and ride With all your might, to tell De Haren this; He lies at Twelve-Mile Creek with larger force Than mine, and will move up to my support: He'll see my handful cannot keep at bay Five hundred men, or fight in open field. But what strength can't accomplish cunning must-- I'll have to circumvent them.

[_Exit_ CUMMINGS.

(_To Mishe-mo-qua_.) And you, chief, What will you do? You've stood by me so long, So faithfully, I count upon you now.

_Mishe-mo-qua_. White chief say true: we good King George's men. My warriors yell! hide! shoot! hot bullet fly Like dart of Annee-meekee. We keep dam Long-Knife back. I go just now.

_Fitzgibbon (handing the chief a twist of tobacco, which he puts into his girdle with a grunt of satisfaction)_. A Mohawk is my friend, and you are one.

[FITZGIBBON _shakes hands with the_ Chief, _who retires well pleased_.

(_To Mrs. Secord_.) Madam, how may I serve you to secure Your safety? Refreshment comes; but here Is no protection in our present strait.

_Mrs. Secord_. I thank you, sir, but will not tax you more Than some refreshment. I have friends beyond A mile or two, with whom I'll stay to-night.

_Fitzgibbon_. I'll spare an escort; Mr. Jarvis here will--

[MRS. SECORD _faints_.

Poor soul! poor soul! she is exhaust indeed.

(_The men run out and bring water_, Fitzgibbon _gets brandy from a buffet, and_ Mr. Jarvis _unloosens her bonnet and collar. They bathe her hands with the spirit and sprinkle her face with the water, and at last_ MRS. SECORD _sighs heavily_.)

_Fitzgibbon_. She's coming to. Back, men; give her more air.

(MR. JARVIS _and another_ Cadet _support_ MRS. SECORD, _while_ LIEUT. FITZGIBBON _offers her coffee, into which he has poured a little brandy, feeding her with the spoon_.)

_An 8th man (aside_). She'll never walk to reach her friends to-night.

_A 49th man (to a comrade_). Jack, thou an' me can do't. 'Tyent the fust time We've swung a faintin' comrade 'twixt us two; An' her's just like a babby. Fatch a pole An' blanket, an' we'll carry her.

_A Sergeant_. You'll then be in the rear, for we're to move.

_Second 49th man_. We'll catch ye oop a foight'n'; its summat wuth
To await o' sech as she.

_Fitzgibbon (to Mrs. Secord_). Are you better now?

_Mrs. Secord (trying to stand_). I think I am. Oh, sir, I'm losing you The time I tried to save! Pray leave me-- I shall be better soon, and I can find my way.

_Fitzgibbon_. Nay, be not anxious; we are quite prepared. Sheathed though our claws may be, they're always sharp. Pray drink again, nor fear the potent touch That snatches back the life when the spent heart, Oppressed by cruel tasks, as yours, can scarcely beat.

[MRS. SECORD _drinks the coffee, and again rises, but can
scarcely stand_.

_49th man (saluting_). Sir, me an' Bill has here a hammock ready, An' volunteers to see the lady safe. Among her friends.

_Mrs. Secord_. But I can walk.

_Fitzgibbon_. Madam, you cannot. Let these carry you; An honour I do grudge them. I shall move With better heart knowing you cared for.

_Mrs. Secord_. I'll go at once--

_Fitzgibbon_. Men, bring your hammock hither.

(_The hammock is brought, and_ MRS. SECORD _is assisted into it by_ LIEUT. FITZGIBBON, _who wraps a blanket round her. The men fall into line, and salute as she passes. At the door she offers her hand to_ FITZGIBBON.)

_Mrs. Secord_. Farewell, sir. My best thanks for all your goodness, Your hospitality, and this, your escort; You do me too much honour.

_Fitzgibbon_. Should we not Show our respect for one has done so much For us? We are your debtors, madam.

[_He points to the sky, set thick with brilliant stars, the moon
having already set_.

See how the eyes of heaven look down on you, And smile, in gentle approbation Of a most gentle deed. I pray they light You safely to your friends.

_Mrs. Secord_. And you to victory, sir. Farewell.

[FITZGIBBON _bows_.

[_Exeunt_ MRS. SECORD _and her escort_.

_Fitzgibbon (to the men who have crowded round the door, and are awaiting orders_). Men, never forget this woman's noble deed. Armed, and in company, inspirited By crash of martial music, soldiers march To duty; but she, alone, defenceless, With no support but kind humanity And burning patriotism, ran all our risks Of hurt, and bloody death, to serve us men, Strangers to her save by quick war-time ties. Therefore, in grateful memory and kind return, Ever treat women well.

_Men_. Aye, aye, sir.

_Fitzgibbon_. Now, then, for action. I need not say, Men, do your duty. The hearts that sprung To follow Nelson; Brock; have never failed. I'm proud, my men, to be your leader now.

* * * * *

SCENE 2.--_Morning twilight. A little wayside tavern at a cross-road_.

_Enter_ FITZGIBBON, _reconnoitring_.

_Fitzgibbon_. They must be pretty near by this time,
If they are come at all.

(_Two American soldiers of the advanced guard rush out of the tavern and present their rifles_. FITZGIBBON _springs on them, and, seizing each man's weapon, crosses them in front of himself_.)

Not yet, my friends.

[_They struggle, and one of the Americans draws_ FITZGIBBON'S
_sword and is about to plunge it in his shoulder_.

_Enter a woman, the_ tavern-keeper.

_Woman_. Ye Yankee rogue! ye coward!

[_She snatches the sword, and runs into the tavern with it_.

_Fitzgibbon_. Take that! and that!

[_He trips up one man, and knocks the other down, putting his
foot on the man's breast_.

Now, give me up your arms.

[_They give up their arms_.

_Enter_ FITZGIBBON'S _command_.

Here, Sergeant, march them in and set a guard.

[_They are marched into the tavern. Shots are heard_.

_Fitsgibbon_. They're come! Quick--march, my lads.

* * * * *

SCENE 3.--_The beech ridge. Frequent firing. The Indian war-whoop. Bugles sounding the advance_.

_Enter_ LIEUT. FITZGIBBON _and_ COL. THOMAS CLARKE.

_Fitzgibbon_. The Mohawks have done well; and I am glad
To have your help, sir, too. What is your strength?

_Clarke_. But twenty, sir, all told.

_Fitzgibbon_. And I but thirty. Too few to fight such force In open field. But Boerstler's lost his head: Deluded by our calls, your fierce attack, And Indian fighting--which to them has ghosts Of their own raising--scalps, treachery, what not. There is our chance: I mean to summon him To a surrender.

_Clarke (in great surprise)_. Sir!

_Fitzgibbon_. 'Tis a bold stroke, I grant, and if it fail Why then I'll fight it out. Keep up the scare Some moments longer, and we'll see.

_Clarke_. Good luck betide so brave a word;
I'll do my best.

[_Exit_ COL. CLARKE.

_Enter the American force in some confusion_.

(FITZGIBBON _sends forward a flag of truce; the bugles sound "Cease firing;" an officer advances from the American lines and_ FITZGIBBON _goes forward to meet him_.)

_Fitzgibbon_. Sir, with my compliments to your commander, I am the leader of this large detachment, Backed closely up by reinforcements Larger still. Indians, our good allies, Swarm in the woods around; and in your rear A strong militia force awaits my orders: Therefore, sir, to save a useless loss Of brave men's lives, I offer you fair terms Of full surrender.

_American officer_. I will report, sir,
To Colonel Boerstler.

[_Exit_.

_Fitzgibbon_ (_aside)_. And I will pray. For after all in God's hand lies the day: I've done the best I know.

_Enter the American officer and an orderly_.

_American officer_. Sir, with respect, our colonel bids me say That, seeing fate and fortune both unite To mar success, he'll rather save his men By fair surrender, than waste their lives In useless struggle. He commissions me To act in drawing up the terms. I am McDowell, captain of a troop.

_Fitzgibbon_ (_bowing)_. Your humble servant, sir. We'll try to please Your colonel; rejoicing we have met a foe Who knows the bravery of discretion.

_Enter_ COL. CLARKE, CAPT. KERR, _of the Indian contingent, and_ MISHE-MO-QUA.

(_The British officers consult, and then invite_ CAPT. MCDOWELL _to join them. A drum is brought, Major De Haren produces writing materials; and terms of capitulation are drawn up, which are read to_ CAPT. MCDOWELL.)

_Fitzgibbon_. Our terms we make as light as possible:
I hope you'll find them so, sir.

_Capt. McDowell_ (_after reading_). Terms generous and honourable sir; I thank you. A noble foe is always half a friend. I'll carry them to Colonel Boerstler, With your consent.

[FITZGIBBON _bows_.

[_Exit_ CAPT. MCDOWELL.

_Enter_ MAJOR DE HAREN, _who hastens to greet_ LIEUT. FITZGIBBON.

_Major De Haren_. Why, what is this, Fitzgibbon, that I hear? That with your little handful you have caught Five hundred enemy? A very elephant!

_Fitzgibbon_. A strait like mine required some strategy.

_De Haren_. My dear, brave fellow, you have surely won The golden epaulettes! How glad I am I was not here before. Such tact! such skill! You are a soldier born. But who comes hither?

_Enter_ COL. BOERSTLER, CAPT. MCDOWELL _and other American officers_.

_Fitzgibbon_. These are the officers to sign our terms.

[_The officers on both sides salute_.

_Boerstler_ (_to Fitzgibbon_). I thank you, sir, for honourable terms, For vain it was to cope with force like yours. But ne'er I thought to put my hand to such A document.

[_He takes up the pen_.

_Fitzgibbon_. Fortune of war, sir, that we all may meet.

[_Each officer signs the document in his order_; MISHE-MO-QUA
_draws his totem--a bear--as his signature_.

_De Haren_ (_to Col. Boerstler_). Will you proceed on the third article?

_Boerstler_ (_to Capt. McDowell_). Give you the order.

[_Exit_ CAPT. MCDOWELL.

_Fitzgibbon_ (_to his men, who are drawn up across the road--
De Haren's command forming their right and left wings_).
Forward--ten paces.

[_Enter by companies the American force, who lay down their arms
in front of the British officers and defile to the rear_.

_De Haren_ (_to Fitzgibbon_). A glorious day for you, Fitzgibbon;
For this fair Canada, and British arms.

_Fitzgibbon_. Yes, thanks to a brave woman's glorious deed.

[_Exeunt_.

* * * * *

POEMS

A BALLAD OF 1812.

Now hush the martial trumpet's blare,
And tune the softer lyre;
Nor shrink lest gentler tones should lack
The high, heroic fire:

For many a valiant deed is done,
And great achievement wrought,
Whose inspiration knows no source
Save pure and holy thought.

Nor think some lofty pedestal,
Proud-lifted towards the skies,
The only plane where Worth can wrest
From Fame her highest prize:

For many a nameless nook and lone,
And many a tongueless hour,
Sees deeds performed whose glories shame
The pride of pomp and power.

Nor dream that to a noble deed
It needs a noble name;
Or that to mighty act achieved
Must link a stalwart frame:

For strung by Duty's steady hand,
And thrilled by Love's warm touch,
Slight forms and simple names may serve
At need, to avail for much.

Then lay the blaring trumpet by,
And tune the softer lyre
To songs of Woman's chivalry,
Of Woman's patriot fire.

I.

O heard ye not of Queenston Heights,--
Of Brock who fighting fell,--
And of the Forty-ninth and York,
Who 'venged their hero well?--

And of the gallant stand they made--
What prowess kept at bay
The swelling foe, till Sheaffe appeared,
And won the glorious day!

Yet heard ye how--ban of success--
Irresolution ruled,
Till all our green peninsula
And border-land, were schooled

To bear, nathless all frowningly,
The yoke of alien power,
And wait in patience, as they might,
The dawn of happier hour.

Till Forty-mile, and Stony Creek,
Revived our waning hopes,
And round Fort-George a limit held
The Yankees as with ropes.

Yet, as do cordons oft enclose
The unwilling with the fain,
Our people, by forced parole held,
Could naught but own the rein.

Then heard ye how a little post.
Some twenty miles away,
A check upon proud Dearborn's hopes,
Was fixed upon for prey?

And how lest Britain's bull-dog pluck,
Roused by their isolation,
Should make these few, brave, lonely men,
Fight as in desperation,

And prove a match for thrice their odds,
They made them three times three,
And thrice of that, with guns to boot,
To insure a victory?

Then they would take the Night along
--No mean ally with odds,
As Stony Creek can testify:
But then she marched with gods!--

Yet blame ye not the silent Night
That she was forced to go,
For oft have captives been compelled
To serve the hated foe:

And oft with grave and quiet mien,
And Samson-like intent,
Have brought about such ends, as by
Their lords were never meant.

Then blame ye not the dark-eyed Night,
Of grave and silent mien;
Her whisper 'twas that foiled the foe,
And fired our patriot queen.

II.

"And why, my husband, why so pale?"
'Twas Laura Secord spoke;
And when she heard his plaintive tale,
Then all the patriot woke.

"Thou knowest how Fitzgibbon holds
The post at Beaver Dams,
And Dearborn frets, and fumes, and chafes,
And calls us British shams:

"Because we will not, willing, give,
To feed an alien foe,
The substance, all too poor and sparse,
Our stinted fields may grow.

"So when the Night puts on her robes Of sad and sable hue, A host he sends, of shameful strength, To oust that noble few.

"And who shall warn Fitzgibbon? Who?
My weakness is my bale;
At such an hour of pressing need,
O that my aid should fail!

"And yet, my country, if my blood,
Drawn from me drop by drop,
Could save thee in this awful strait,
'Twere thine,'twere thine, to stop

"This massacre, this horrid crime,
To baulk this wicked plot!
My parole given!--by Heaven I could--
I Would--regard it not.

"But here am I, a cripple weak;
Great Heaven! and must they fall
Because I, wretched I alone,
Know what will sure befall!"

"Calm thee, my husband, calm thee now.
Heaven ne'er points out a deed,
But to the creature by whose means
Its action is decreed:

"Thou, had'st thou not been sick and lame,
Would'st ne'er have learned this plot,
And had'st thou strength thou could'st not pass
The lines, and not be shot.

"Wherefore,'tis plain, 'tis not to thee
The careful task is given;
'Tis rather me; and I will go,
Safe in the care of Heaven."

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

The fritil' butterfly, the bee,
Whose early labours cheer,
And point the happy industry
That marks the opening year.

The cheerful robin's sturdy 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 butterfly
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!"
She faintly cries to Heaven, from out
The darkening waste of trees.

Fear not, O patriot, courage take,
Thy Father holds thy hand,
Nor lets the powers of ill prevail
Where He doth take command.

Away the prowling ghouls are fled,
Some fitter prey to seek;
The trembling woman sighs the thanks
Her white lips cannot speak.

IV.

Now wherefore halts that sentry bold,
And lays his piece in rest,
As from the shadowy depths below
One gains the beechen crest?

'Tis but a woman, pale and faint,--
As woman oft may prove,
Whose eagle spirit soars beyond
The home-flight of the dove.

How changes now the sentry's mien,
How soft his tones and low,
As Laura Secord tells her tale
Of an impendent foe!

"God bless thee, now, thou woman bold,
And give thee great reward."
The soldier says, with eyes suffused,
And keeps a jealous guard,

As onward, onward still she goes,
With steady step and true,
Towards her goal, yet far away,
Hid in the horizon blue.

Behind her grows the golden moon,
Before her fall the shades,
And somewhere near her hides the bird
Whose death-call haunts the glades.

The early dew blooms all the sod,
The fences undulate
In the weird light, like living lines
That swell with boding hate.

For she has left the tangled woods,
And keeps the open plain
Where once a fruitful farm-land bloomed,
And yet shall bloom again.

And now, as nears the dreaded hour.
Her goal the nearer grows,
And hope, the stimulus of life,
Her weary bosom glows.

Toward's lone Decamp's--whose ancient home
Affords Fitzgibbon's band
Such shelter as the soldier asks
Whose life hangs on his brand--

A steady mile or so, and then--
Ah, what is't rends the air
With horrent, blood-encurdling tones.
The tocsin of despair!

It is the war-whoop of the braves,
Of Kerr's famed Mohawk crew,
Who near Fitzgibbon ambushed lie
To serve that lonely few.

Startled, yet fearless, on she speeds.
"Your chief denote," she cries;
And, proudly towering o'er the crowd,
The chief does swift arise.

Fierce rage is in his savage eye,
His tomahawk in air;
"Woman! what woman want?" he cries,
"Her death does woman dare!"

But quickly springs she to his side,
And firmly holds his arm,
"Oh, chief, indeed no, spy am I,
But friend to spare you harm."

And soon she makes her errand known,
And soon, all side by side,
The red man and his sister brave
In silence quickly glide.

And as the moon surmounts the trees,
They gain the sentried door,
And faintly to Fitzgibbon she
Unfolds her tale once more.

Then, all her errand done, she seeks
A lowly dwelling near,
And sinks, a worn-out trembling thing,
Too faint to shed a tear.

V.

Now let the Lord of Hosts be praised!
Cheer brave Fitzgibbon's band,
Whose bold discretion won the day,
And saved our threatened land!

And cheer that weary traveller,
On lowly couch that lies,
And scarce can break the heavy spell.
That holds her waking eyes.

No chaplet wreathes her aching brows.
No paeans rend the air;
But in her breast a jewel glows
The tried and true may wear.

And Time shall twine her wreath of bays
Immortal as her fame,
And many a generation joy,
In Laura Secord's name.

"Fitzgibbon and the Forty-ninth!"
Whene'er ye drink that toast
To brave deeds done a grateful land,
Praise Laura Secord most.

As one who from the charged mine
Coils back the lighted fuse,
'T was hers, at many a fearful risk,
To carry fateful news;

And save the dreadnought band; and give
To Beaver Dam a name,
The pride of true Canadian hearts,
Of others, but the shame.

VI.

Now wherefore trembles still the string
By lyric fingers crossed,
To Laura Secord's praise and fame,
When forty years are lost?

Nay, five and forty, one by one,
Have borne her from the day
When, fired by patriotic zeal,
She trod her lonely way:

Her hair is white, her step is slow,
Why kindles then her eye,
And rings her voice with music sweet
Of many a year gone by?

O know ye not proud Canada,
With joyful heart, enfolds
In fond embrace, the royal boy
Whose line her fealty holds?

For him she spreads her choicest cheer,
And tells her happiest tale,
And leads him to her loveliest haunts,
That naught to please may fail.

And great art thou, O Chippewa,
Though small in neighbours' eyes,
When out Niagara's haze thou seest
A cavalcade arise;

And, in its midst, the royal boy,
Who, smiling, comes to see
An ancient dame whose ancient fame
Shines in our history.

He takes the thin and faded hand,
He seats him at her side,
Of all that gay and noble band,
That moment well the pride:

To him the aged Secord tells,
With many a fervid glow,
How, by her means, Fitzgibbon struck
His great historic blow.

Nor deem it ye, as many do,
A weak and idle thing
That, at that moment Laura loved
The praises of a king;

And dwelt on his approving smile,
And kissed his royal hand,
Who represented, and should wield,
The sceptre of our land;

For where should greatness fire her torch,
If not at greatness' shrine?
And whence should approbation come
Did not the gods incline?

VII.

And when, from o'er the parting seas,
A royal letter came,
And brought a gift to recognize
Brave Laura Secord's fame.

What wonder that her kindling eye
Should fade, suffused in tears?
What wonder that her heart should glow,
Oblivious of the years?

And honour ye the kindly grace
Of him who still hath been
In all things kindly, and the praise
Of our beloved Queen.

THE QUEEN'S JUBILEE,

JUNE 21ST, 1887.

A Jubilee! A Jubilee!
Waft the glad shout across the laughing sea!
A Jubilee! A Jubilee! O bells
Ring out our gladness on your merry peals!

O thou, the root and flower of this our joy, Well may thy praise our grateful hearts employ! Fair as the moon and glorious as the sun, Thy fame to many a future age shall run.

"I WILL BE GOOD." 'Twas thus thy judgment spake, When, greatness would allure for greatness' sake. Thou _hast_ been good: herein thy strength hath lain; And not thine only, it hath been our gain: Nor ours alone, for every people's voice, Because thou hast been good, doth now rejoice. Beneath the shelter of that fruitful vine-- Thy goodness--hath pure Virtue reared her shrine. Freedom hath lift her flag, and flung it free, Rejoicing in a god-like liberty. Truth hath her gracious lineaments revealed To humble souls, beneath Victoria's shield. Mercy, whose message bore thy first command, Hath carried festival to every land. Justice hath worn his robes unsmirched of gold; Nor longer strikes in vengeance, as of old. Kind Pity, wheresoe'er the tried might be, Widow, and babe, hath borne a balm from thee. Valour hath drawn his sword with surer aim: And Peace hath signed her treaties in thy name. Honour hath worn his plumes with nobler grace: And Piety pursued her readier race. Learning hath pressed where ne'er she walked before: And Science touched on realms undreamt of yore. Commerce hath spread wide wings o'er land and sea, And spoken nations glorious yet to be. Before the light of Temperance' purer grace. Excess hath veiled his spoiled and purpled face. And never since the peopled world began Saw it so strong the brotherhood of man. Great glory thus hath gathered round thy name,-- VICTORIA. QUEEN. Goodness hath been thy fame, And greatness shall be, for the twain are one: As thy clear eye discerned ere rule begun. O Queen, receive anew our homage free: Our love and praise on this thy Jubilee.

THE HERO OF ST. HELEN'S ISLAND.

CANADA'S TRIBUTE TO THE TWENTY-FOURTH (2ND WARWICKSHIRE) REGIMENT.

O the roaring and the thunder!
O the terror and the wonder!
O the surging and the seething of the flood!
O the tumbling and the rushing--
O the grinding and the crushing--
O the plunging and the rearing of the ice!
When the great St. Lawrence River,
With a mighty swell and shiver,
Bursts amain the wintry bonds that hold him fast.

'Twas on an April morning--
And the air was full of warning
Of the havoc and the crash that was to be.--
A deed was done, whose glory
Flames from out the simple story,
Like the living gleam of diamond in the mine.
'Twas where St. Mary's Ferry
In sweet summer makes so merry,
'Twixt St. Helen's fortressed isle and Montreal,
There, on an April morning,--
As if in haughty scorning
Of the tale soft Zephyr told in passing by--
Firm and hard, like road of Roman,
Under team of sturdy yeoman,
Or the guns, the ice lay smooth, and bright, and cold.
And watching its resistance
To the forces in the distance
That nearer and yet nearer ever rolled,

Warning off who tempt the crossing,
All too soon so wildly tossing,
Stood a party of Old England's Twenty-Fourth.
While as yet they gazed in wonder,
Sudden boomed the awful thunder
That proclaimed the mighty conqueror at hand.
O then the fierce uplifting!
The trembling, and the rifting!
The tearing, and the grinding, and the throes!
The chaos and careering,
The toppling and the rearing,
The crashing and the dashing of the floes!

At such an awful minute
A glance,--the horror in it!--
Showed a little maiden midway twixt the shores,
With hands a-clasp and crying.
And, amid the masses, trying,--
Vainly trying--to escape on either hand.
O child so rashly daring!
Who thy dreadful peril sharing
Shall, to save thee, tempt the terrors of the flood
That roaring, leaping, swirling,
And continuously whirling,
Threats to whelm in frightful deeps thy tender form!
The helpless soldiers, standing
On a small precarious landing,
Think of nothing but the child and her despair,
When a voice as from the Highest,--
To the child he being nighest--
Falls _"Quick-march!"_ upon the ear of Sergeant Neill.
O blessed sense of duty!
As on banderole of duty
His unswerving eye he fixes on the child;
And straight o'er floe and fissure,
Fragments yielding to his pressure,
Toppling berg, and giddy block, he takes his way;

Sometimes climbing, sometimes crawling.
Sometimes leaping, sometimes falling,
Till at last he stands where cowers the weeping child.
Then with all a victor's bearing.
As in warlike honours sharing,
With the child all closely clasped upon his breast,
O'er floe and hummock taking
Any step for safety making,
On he goes, till they who watch can see no more.

For both glass and light are failing.
As the ice-pack, slowly sailing,
Bears him onward past the shore of far Longueil.
"Lost!" his comrades cry, and turning.
Eyes cast down, and bosoms burning,
Gain the shelter of their quiet barrack home;
Where, all night, the tortured father
Clasps the agonizing mother.
In the mute embrace of hopelessness and dread.
O the rapid alternations
When the loud reverberations
Of the evening gun boom forth the hour of rest!
The suffering and the sorrow!
The praying for the morrow!
The fears, the hopes, that tear the parents breasts!
And many a word is spoken
At the mess, so sadly broken,
Of the men who mourn their comrade brave and true
And many a tear-drop glistens,
Where a watching mother listens
To the tumult of the ice along the shore.
And ever creeping nearer,
Children hold each other dearer,
In the gaps of slumber broken by its roar.

Twice broke the rosy dawning
Of a sunny April morning,
And Hope had drooped her failing wings, to die;
When o'er the swelling river,
Like an arrow from a quiver,
Came the news of rescue, safety, glad return;
And the mother, as from Heaven,
Clasped her treasure, newly-given;
And the father wrung the hand of Sergeant Neill:
Who shrunk from their caressing,
Nor looked for praise or blessing,
But straight returned to duty and his post.

And this the grateful story,
To others' praise and glory,
That the Sergeant told his comrades round the fire.

"Far down the swelling river,
To the ocean flowing ever,
With its teeming life of porpoise, fish, and seal,
There hardy, brave, and daring,
Dwells the _habitant_; nor caring
Save to make his frugal living by his skill.
Nor heeds he of the weather,
For scale, and fur, and feather,
Lay their tribute in his hand the year around.
On the sunny April morning,
That the ice had given warning
Of the havoc and the crash that was to be,
Stood Pierre, Louis, gazing,
Their prayers to Mary raising,
For a season full of bounty from the sea.
And when the light was failing,
And the ice-pack, slowly-sailing,
Crashing, tumbling, roaring, thundering, passed them by,
Their quick eye saw with wonder,
On the masses torn asunder,
An unfortunate who drifted to his doom.

"O then the exclamations!
The rapid preparations!
The launching of canoes upon the wave!
The signalling and shouting!--
Death and disaster flouting--
The anxious haste, the strife, a human life to save
Across the boiling surges,
Each man his light bark urges,
Though death is in the error of a stroke;
And paddling, poising, drifting,
O'er the floes the light shell lifting,
The gallant fellows reach the whirling pack:
And from the frightful danger,
They save the worn-out stranger.
And oh, to see the nursling in his arms!
And oh, the pious caring,
The sweet and tender faring,
From the gentle hands of Marie and Louise!
And the pretty, smiling faces,
As the travellers take their places
To return again to those who weep their loss.

And the Sergeant's story ending,
His head in rev'rence bending,
He cried "God bless for ever all noble souls like these!"
But cheer on cheer resounded,
Till the officers, astounded
At their mess, upon their sword-hilts clapped their hands.
And the plaudits rose still higher,
When they joined with martial fire,
In the cry "God bless the Twenty-Fourth, and its gallant Sergeant Neill!"

OCTOBER 13TH, 1872.

A PLEA FOR THE VETERANS OF 1812.

Forget not, Canada, the men who gave, In fierce and bloody fray, their lives for thine. Pause thou, Ontario, in thy forward march, And give a tear to those who, long ago, On this day fell upon those Heights where now Their ashes rest beneath memorial pile. And while those names, BROCK and MACDONELL, wake A throb of emulative gratitude And patriotic fervour in thy breast, Forget not those--"the boys," the nameless ones,-- Who also fought and fell on that October day; Nameless their ashes, but their memories dear! Remember, too, Those grandsires at thy hearths who linger still; Whose youthful arms then helped to guard thy peace, Thy peace their own. And ere they go to join Their ancient comrades of the hard-won fight, Glad their brave hearts with one applauding cheer In memory of the day. Comfort their age With plenty. Let them find that sturdy youth, Whose heritage they saved, bows rev'rent head, And lends a strong right arm to ancient men, Whose deeds of patriot prowess deck the silk That waves so proudly from the nation's towers.

LOYAL.

"The Loyalists having sacrificed their property to their politics,
were generally poor, and had to work hard and suffer many privations
before they could reap crops to support their families. In those
early days there were no merchants, no bakeries, no butchers' shop's,
no medical men to relieve the fevered brain or soothe a mother's
aching heart, no public house, no minister to console the dying or
bury the dead, no means of instruction for the young; all was bush,
hard labour and pinching privation for the present, and long toil for
the rising generations."
REV. G. A. ANDERSON,
_Protestant Chaplain to the Reformatory, Penetanguishene_.

O Ye, who with your blood and sweat
Watered the furrows of this land,--
See where upon a nation's brow
In honour's front, ye proudly stand!

Who for her pride abased your own,
And gladly on her altar laid
All bounty of the older world,
All memories that your glory made.