William Shakespeare - "The History of Troilus and Cressida"

William Blake - "Poems of William Blake"

Thomas Carlyle - "History of Friedrich II of Prussia V 1x"

Algernon Charles Swinburne - "Chastelard, A Tragedy"

Laura Secord, the heroine of 1812.

S >> Sarah Anne Curzon >> Laura Secord, the heroine of 1812.







THE HOUSE OF CARDS.


How softly glide Philemon's happy days
Within the cot where once his father dwelt
Peaceful as he!
Here with his gentle wife and sturdy boys,
In rural quietude, he tills his farm;
Gathers his harvest, or his garden tends.
Here sweet domestic joys together shared
Crown every evening, whether 'neath the trees
The smiling summer draws the table forth:
Or round the cosy hearth the winter cold
With crackling faggot blazing makes their cheer.
Here do the careful parents ever give
Counsels of virtuous knowledge to their sons.
The father with a story points his speech,
The mother with a kiss.
Of different tastes, the boys: the elder one,
Grave, studious, reads and thinks the livelong day;
The younger, sprightly, gay, and graceful, too,
Leaps, laughs incessant, and in games delights.
One evening, as their wont, at father's side,
And near a table where their mother sewed,
The elder Rollin read. The younger played:
Small care had he for Rome's ambitious deeds,
Or Parthian prowess; his whole mind was set
To build a house of cards, his wit sharp-drawn
To fit the corners neatly. He, nor speaks,
Nor scarce may breathe, so great his anxious care.
But suddenly the reader's voice is heard
Self-interrupting: "Papa, pray tell me why
Some warriors are called Conquerors, and some
The Founders, of an Empire? What doth make
The points of difference in the simple terms?"
In careful thought the father sought reply:
When, radiant with delight, his younger son,
After so much endeavour, having placed
His second stage, cries out, "Tis done!" But he,
The elder, harshly chides his brother's glee,
Strikes the frail tenement, and so destroys
The fruits of patient toil: The younger weeps:
And then the father thus: "Oh, my dear son,
Thy brother is the Founder of a realm,
Thou the fell Conqueror."--_Florian_.




THE BULLFINCH AND THE RAVEN.


In separate cages hung, the same kind roof
Sheltered a bullfinch and a raven bold,
The one with song mellifluous charmed the house;
The other's cries incessant wearied all.
With loud hoarse voice he screamed for bread and meat
And cheese; the which they quickly brought, in hope
To stop thereby his brawling tongue.
The finch
Did nought but sing, and never bawled and begged;
So they forgot him. Oft the pretty bird
Nor food nor water had, and they who praised
His song the loudest took the smallest care
To fill his fount. And yet they loved him well,
But thought not on his needs.
One day they found him dead within his cage,
"Ah, horror! and he sang so well!" they cry,
"What can it be he died of? 'Tis, indeed
A dreadful pity."
The raven still screamed on, and nothing lacked.--_Florian_.




THE WASP AND THE BEE.


Within the chalice of a flower
A bee "improved the shining hour,"
Whom, when she saw, a wasp draw near,
And sought to gain the fair one's ear,
With tender praise: "Oh, sister mine--
(For love and trust that name entwine)"
But ill it pleased the haughty bee,
Who answered proudly: "Sisters!--we?
Since when, I pray you, dates the tie?"
With angry warmth the wasp's reply
Came fuming forth--"Life-long, indeed.
In semblant points all eyes may read
The fact. Observe me if you please.
Your wings, are they not such as these?
Mine is your figure, mine your waist,
And if you used with proper taste
Your sting, as I do, we agree
In that."
"'Tis true," replies the bee,
"Each bears a weapon; in its use
The difference lies. For fierce abuse,
And insolence your dart doth serve.
Mine gives the chastisement that these deserve,
And while you irritate your dearest friend;
I take good heed myself, but to defend."--_Florian_.






TRANSLATIONS





A MEMORY OF THE HEROES OF 1760.

FROM THE FRENCH OF P. LE MAY.


O ye who tread with heedless feet
This dust once laid with heroes' blood,
A moment turn your backward glance
To years of dread inquietude:
When wars disturbed our peaceful fields;
When mothers drew a sobbing breath;
When the great river's hilly marge
Resounded with a cry of death.

Then, full of fire, the heroes sprang
To save our heritage and laws.
They conquered! 'twas a holiday.
Alas, the last in such a cause!
Bloody and shamed, the flag of France
Perforce recrossed the widening seas;
The sad Canadian mourned his hopes,
And cherished bitter memories.

But noble he despite his woe!
Before his lords he proudly bends,
Like some tall oak that storms may shake,
And bow, but never, never rend.
And oft he dreams a happy dream,
And sees a flag, with lilies sown,
Come back whence comes the rising Sun,
To float o'er landscapes all his own.

Oh when the south wind on its wings
Bears to his ear strange sounds afar,
To him they seem the solemn chant
Of triumph after clam'rous war.
Those echoes weird of gallant strife
E'en stir the coffined warrior-dead,
As stirs a nation's inmost heart
At some proud pageant nobly led.

O France, once more 'neath Western skies,
We see thy standards proudly wave!
And Mexico's high ramparts fall
Before thy squadrons, true and brave.
Peace shalt thou to the land restore;
For fetters shalt give back the crown;
And with thy shining sword shalt hurl
The base usurper from the throne.

Hear ye, how in their ancient urns
The ashes of our heroes wake?
Thus greet they ye, fair sons of morn,
For this their solemn silence break.
They greet ye, whose renown hath reached
Past star on star to highest heaven!
Ye on whose brow their halo sits,
To ye their altar shall be given!

Arise, immortal phalanxes,
Who fell upon a glorious day!
Your century of mourning weeds
Posterity would take away.
Arise and see! our woods and fields
No longer nourish enemies!
Whom once ye fought are brothers now,
One law around us throws its ties.

And who shall dare our homesteads touch,
That for our heritage ye gave:--
And who shall drive us from the shores
To which your blood the verdure gave?--
E'en they shall find the oppressed will rise
More powerful for the foe withstood;
And ever for such heinous crime
Shall pay the forfeit with their blood.

Ye, our defenders in the past,
Your names are still a household word!
In childhood's ear old age recounts
The toils your hardy youth endured.
And on the field of victory
Hath gratitude your memory graved!
In during brass your story lives
A glory to the centuries saved!




THE SONG OF THE CANADIAN VOLTIGEURS.

FROM THE FRENCH OF P. LE MAY.


Our country insulted
Demands quick redress.
To arms, Voltigeurs!
To the struggle we press.
From vict'ry to vict'ry,
Brave, righteous, and just,
Ours the mem'ries that cling to
Our forefathers' dust.

Defend we our farm-lands,
Our half-crumbled walls!
Defend we our sweethearts,
Our hearths and our halls!
Our dear native tongue,
Our faith keep we free!
Defend we our life,
For a people are we!

No rulers know we, save
Our time-honoured laws!
And woe to the nation
That sneers at our cause.
Our fields and our furrows,
Our woods and our streams,
Should their columns invade,
Shall entomb their vain dreams!

To our foes, the perfidious,
Be war to the knife.
Intrepid, yet duteous,
We leap to the strife.
More terrible shewing
In danger's red hour;
We know to avenge,
And unbroken our power.

List the thunderous roar
As the shot rushes by!
To our war-song heroic,
The chorus of joy.
At the ring of the musket
To the battle we fly;
Come! come to the field,
See us conquer or die.

What! we become slaves
To an alien foe?
We bear their vile trammels?
Our answer is, No!
Assistance shall reach us
From heaven's lucent arch:
Come! seize we our muskets
And "double-quick march!"




THE LEGEND OF THE EARTH.

FROM THE FRENCH OF JEAN RAMEAU.

[The Prize Poem in the Christmas (1885) Number of the Paris
_Figaro_, translated for the _Week_.]


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.

And the cry said "Cursed! Cursed are we, the lost
By misery led, a wretched pallid flock,
Made for the light and tossed into the dark!

"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

FROM THE FRENCH OF PHILIPPE DEPORTES, SIXTEENTH CENTURY.


In my absence, though so short,
You, Rosette, had changed your mind:
Learning your inconstancy,
I, another mistress find.
Never more shall charms so free
Gain ascendancy o'er me.
We shall see, oh light Rosette,
Which of us will first regret.

While with tears I pine away,
Cursing separation drear;
You, who love by force of wont,
Took another for your dear.
Never vane all lightly hung,
To the wind more swiftly swung.
We shall see, oh vain Rosette,
Which of us will first regret.

Where are all those sacred vows,--
All those tears at parting wept?
Can it be those mournful plaints
Came from heart so lightly kept?
Heavens, that you so false could be!
Who shall trust you, cursed is he.
We shall see, oh false Rosette,
Which of us will first regret.

He who to my place has climbed,
Ne'er can love you more than I;
And in beauty, love, and faith,
You're surpassed I own with joy.
Guard your new love lest he range,
Mine, the darling, knows not change.
Thus we put to proof, Rosette,
Which of us will first regret.

* * * * *






NOTES.






LAURA SECORD, THE HEROINE OF 1812

A DRAMA.


NOTE 1, page 11.

The simple heroic story thus enlarged into dramatic form is not unknown
to the Canadian muse, but has been sung by several of her votaries,
notably by Miss Machar, of Kingston; Mr. John Reade, of Montreal;
and Dr. Jakeway, of Stayner.

Dr. Jakeway's verse is not so well known as it deserves to be, not only
for its literary merit, but also for its patriotic fervour, the fervour
of a true and loyal Canadian: I shall therefore be pardoned if I quote
the closing stanzas of his "Laura Secord":

"Braver deeds are not recorded,
In historic treasures hoarded,
Than the march of Laura Secord through the forest, long ago.
And no nobler deed of daring
Than the cool and crafty snaring,
By that band at Beaver Dam, of all the well-appointed foe.

But we know if war should ever
Boom again o'er field and river.
And the hordes of the invader should appear within our land,
Far and wide the trumpets pealing.
Would awake the same old feeling.
And again would deeds of daring sparkle out on every hand."


NOTE 2, page 12.

And Stony Creek was ours.


A 49th man thus writes to Auchinleck, p. 178:--"Sir,--To your, account
of the battle of Stony Creek I would like to add a few particulars. At
eleven o'clock at night the Light Company and Grenadiers of the 49th
were under arms; every flint was taken out and every charge was drawn.
Shortly after we moved on in sections, left in front, the Light Company
leading the way towards the enemy's camp. I had been driven in that
afternoon from Stony Creek, and was well acquainted with the ground. The
cautious silence observed was most painful; not a whisper was permitted;
even our footsteps were not allowed to be heard. I shall never forget
the agony caused to the senses by the stealthiness with which we
proceeded to the midnight slaughter. I was not aware that any other
force accompanied us than the Grenadiers, and when we approached near
the Creek, I ventured to whisper to Col. Harvey, 'We are close to the
enemy's camp, sir.' 'Hush! I know it,' was his reply. Shortly after a
sentry challenged sharply; Lieutenant Danford and the leading section
rushed forward and killed him with their bayonets; his bleeding corpse
was cast aside, and we moved on with breathless caution. A second
challenge--who comes there?--another rush and the poor sentinel is
transfixed, but his agonized dying groans alarmed a third who stood near
the watch fire; he challenged, and immediately fired and fled. We all
rushed forward upon the sleeping guard; few escaped; many awoke in
another world. The excitement now became intense; the few who had
escaped fired as they ran and aroused the sleeping army. All fled
precipitately beyond the Creek, leaving their blankets and knapsacks
behind.

"Our troops deployed into line and halted in the midst of the camp
fires, and immediately began to replace their flints. This, though not a
_very_ lengthy operation, was one of intense anxiety, for the enemy
now opened a most terrific fire, and many a brave fellow was laid low.
We could only see the flash of the enemy's firelocks while we were
perfectly visible to them, standing as we did in the midst of their camp
fires. It was a grand and beautiful sight. No one who has not witnessed
a night engagement can form any idea of the awful sublimity of the
scene. The first volley from the enemy, coming from a spot as 'dark as
Erebus,' seemed like the bursting forth of a volcano. Then again all was
dark and still, save the moans of the wounded, the confused click!
click!--noise made by our men in adjusting their flints, and the ring of
the enemy's ramrods in reloading. Again the flash and roar of the
musketry, the whistling of the bullets, and the crash of the cannon.
'Chaos has come again.' The anxious moments (hours in imagination) have
passed; the trembling excited hands of our men have at last fastened
their flints; the comparatively merry sound of the ramrod tells that the
charge is driven home; soon the fire is returned with animation; the sky
is illumined with continued flashes; after a sharp contest and some
changes of position, our men advance in a body and the enemy's troops
retire. There were many mistakes made in this action, the two greatest
were removing the men's flints, and halting in the midst of the camp
fires; this is the reason why the loss of the enemy was less than ours,
their wounds were mostly made by our bayonets. The changes of position
by different portions of each army in the dark accounts for the fact of
prisoners having been made by both parties. I must give the enemy's
troops great credit for having recovered from their confusion, and for
having shown a bold front so very soon after their having been so
suddenly and completely surprised.

"Yours, A 49TH MAN."


NOTE 3, page 13.

Friend Penn.


Of this character, of whom the writer has made a somewhat free use, Col.
Coffin says: "There is a tradition in the neighbourhood that Harvey
himself having borrowed the garb and waggon of a Quaker"--of which sect
there were many settled in Upper Canada at the time--"penetrated into
the American lines, selling potatoes and 'taking notes.' Those who can
recall the commanding stature and bearing of the gallant officer
maintain that this was the very last disguise in which he was likely to
succeed. It is not impossible that some patriotic 'Friend' really found
a good market for his produce and valuable information for Harvey."


NOTE 4, page 15.

Hymn.

An air to this hymn has been composed.


NOTE 5, page 16.

Pete and Flos.


That the rights of the slave-holder had legal recognition in 1812 is not
to be doubted, and that nearly every family of any means or repute held
slaves is certain. The Bill abolishing slavery in the British Dominions
did not pass until 1832, when it was introduced by Lord Stanley (the
late Earl of Derby). A strong feeling in favour of its abolition had
however permeated society, in consequence of the powerful
representations made on the subject, both in and out of the British
Parliament, by Wilberforce and Clarkson, "who had successfully shown,"
says Hamilton in his "Outlines of the History of England," "that the
effect of this iniquitous system was no less injurious to the moral
condition of the people of England than it was to the physical
well-being of the African race." That no ill-feeling towards their
masters generally existed in Canada in the minds of the slaves may be
fairly inferred from the fact that, at their own request, a coloured
regiment was formed to assist in the defence of the country in 1812, and
under Captain Runchey did good service at the Battle of Queenston
Heights. In this connection it is also to be remembered that large
numbers of freedmen were to be found both in England and Canada--men
who for faithful or special services had received the gift of freedom
from their grateful and generous masters.

That the Legislature of Upper Canada was free even at that early period
to deal with its domestic questions is shown by the fact that in 1793 an
Act was passed at Newark, "forbidding the further introduction of slaves
into the province, and ordering that 'all slave children born after the
9th of July in that year should be free on attaining the age of
twenty-five.'" To this Act is due the fact that Canada was as early as
1800 a city of refuge for escaped slaves, numbers of whom found their
way hither from Baltimore and Maryland. (_See_ also Appendix)


NOTE 6, page 18.

We'll have it though, and more, if Boerstler.


It has generally been stated that Mr. Secord heard of the intended
surprise of Fitzgibbon by accident. The facts of the case are, however,
related in the poem, Mrs. Smith, a daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Secord, who
yet survives, being the authority.

Mrs. Smith states that with the insolence of the victorious invader,
Dearborn's men came and went, ordered, or possessed themselves of,
whatever they chose, and took every form of familiarity in the homes of
the residents within their lines, and that it was fast becoming an
anxious question with the farmers and others, what they should do for
supplies if Dearborn were not ousted within the season.


NOTE 7, page 19.

--and fell a-talking, loud,
As in defiance, of some private plan
To make the British wince.


The ill-feeling of the Americans towards British subjects can scarcely
be too strongly represented for the facts. A bitter antagonism was
naturally the feeling of each side so lately in the deadly struggle of a
civil war. To gloss over this state of things, deplorable as it was, and
as its results have often been, is to belie history, and to no good or
useful end. Had the contention been akin to a mere friendly tug-of-war,
as some would have it represented now, lest a growing friendliness
should be endangered, it would be necessary for the historian to
re-write all that has been written, for otherwise the arguments of
contention would have no meaning, no _raison d'etre_; in fact, they
could never have been formulated, for the premisses would have been
wanting. "He is the best cosmopolite, who for his country lives." says
some one, and it is to this truth that the peace of the world, which we
all wish to see established, will be owing, not to any false
representations in place of facts.


NOTE 8, page 25.

That hate to England, not our country's name
And weal, impelled mad Madison upon this war,
And shut the mouths of thousand higher men than be.


"The Democratic Party," says Col. Coffin (see "Chronicle of the War,"
pp. 30-1-3), "eager to humble Britain, accepted any humiliation rather
than quarrel with France. They submitted to the capture of ships, the
sequestration of cargoes, the ransom of merchandise, with a faint
remonstrance. French war ships seized American merchantmen at
sea--plundered and burnt them. They consoled themselves with the belief
that the anticipated triumph of the French Emperor in Europe would
ensure their supremacy on this continent. They were prepared to divide
the world between them...." In the words of the historian Alison, "the
ostensible object of the war was to establish the principle that the
flag covers the merchandise, and that the right of search for seamen who
have deserted is inadmissible; the real object was to wrest from Great
Britain the Canadas, and, in conjunction with Napoleon, extinguish its
maritime and colonial empire. Politicians, too, of this early American
school had a notion that French connection and the conquest of Canada
were synonymous terms. This was a great mistake ... but ... it had an
unexpected good effect, for the very suggestion of a French policy, or
the exercise of French influence, tested the British feeling still
latent in the hearts of thousands of Americans. In the New England
States a war with England was denounced.... Citizens of these States
expressed an abhorrence of France, and of its rule, and protested
against the contemplated introduction of French troops on this
continent, which, under the pretext of subduing or seducing the
French-Canadians, might prove to be subversive of their own liberties.

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