Classic Poem

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.