Yes,—in the Lincoln Militia,—in the war of eighteen-twelve;

Many’s the day I’ve had since then to dig and delve—

But those are the years I remember as the brightest years of all,

When we left the plow in the furrow to follow the bugle’s call.

Why, even our son Abner wanted to fight with the men!

“Don’t you go, d’ye hear, sir!”—I was angry with him then.

“Stay with your mother!” I said, and he looked so old and grim—

He was just sixteen that April—I couldn’t believe it was him;

But I didn’t think—I was off—and we met the foe again,

Five thousand strong and ready, at the hill of Lundy’s Lane.

There as the night came on we fought them from six to nine,

Whenever they broke our line we broke their line,

They took our guns and we won them again, and around the levels

Where the hill sloped up—with the Eighty-ninth,—we fought like devils

Until with its very fierceness the fight grew slack.

 

It was then about nine and dark as a miser’s pocket,

When up came Hercules Scott’s brigade swift as a rocket,

And charged,—and the flashes sprang in the dark like a lion’s eyes,

The night was full of fire-groans, and cheers, and cries;

Then through the sound and the fury another sound broke in—

The roar of a great old duck-gun shattered the rest of the din;

It took two minutes to charge it and another to set it free.

Every time I heard it an angel spoke to me;

Yes, the minute I heard it I felt the strangest tide

Flow in my vein like lightning, as if, there, by my side,

Was the very spirit of Valor. But ’twas dark—you couldn’t see—

And the one who was firing the duck-gun fell against me

And slid down to the clover, and lay there still;

Something went through me—piercing—with a strange, swift thrill;

The noise fell away into silence, and I heard as clear as thunder

The long, slow roar of Niagara; O the wonder

Of that deep sound. But again the battle broke

And the foe, driven before us desperately stroke upon stroke,

Left the field to his master, and sullenly down the road

Sounded the boom of his guns, trailing the heavy load

Of his wounded men and his shattered flags, sullen and slow,

Setting fire in his rage to Bridgewater mills, and the glow

Flared in the distant forest. We rested as we could,

And for a while I slept in the dark of a maple wood:

But when the clouds in the east were red all over,

I came back there to the place we made the stand in the clover;

For my heart was heavy then with a strange, deep pain,

As I thought of the glorious fight, and again and again

I remembered the valiant spirit and the piercing thrill;

But I knew it all when I reached the top of the hill,—

For there, there with the blood on his dear, brave head,

There on the hill in the clover lay our Abner—dead!—

 

No—thank you—no, I don’t need it; I’m solid as granite rock,

But every time that I tell it I feel the old, cold shock.

I’m eighty-one my next birthday—do you breed such fellows now?

There he lay with the dawn cooling his broad, fair brow.

That was no dawn for him; and there was the old duck-gun

That many and many’s the time,—just for the fun,

We together, alone, would take to the hickory rise,

And bring home more wild pigeons than ever you saw with your eyes.

Up with Hercules Scott’s brigade, just as it came on night—

He was the angel beside me in the thickest of the fight—

Wrote a note to his mother—he said, “I’ve got to go,

Mother; what would home be under the heel of the foe!”

Oh! she never slept a wink, she would rise and walk the floor;

She’d say this over and over, “I knew it all before!”

I’d try to speak of the glory to give her a little joy.

“What is the glory to me when I want my boy, my boy!”

She’d say, and she’d wring her hands—her hair grew white as snow—

And I’d argue with her up and down, to and fro,

Of how she had mothered a hero, and his was a glorious fate,

Better than years of grubbing to gather an estate.

Sometimes I’d put it this way: “If God was to say to me now

‘Take him back as he once was helping you with the plow,’

I’d say, ‘No, God, thank You, kindly; ’twas You that he obeyed:

You told him to fight, and he fought, and he wasn’t afraid;

You wanted to prove him in battle. You sent him to Lundy’s Lane.

’Tis well!” But she would only answer over and over again,

“Give me back my Abner—give me back my son!”

 

It was so all through the winter until the spring had begun,

And the crocus was up in the dooryard, and the drift by the fence was thinned,

And the sap drip—dropped from the branches wounded by the wind,

And the whole earth smelled like a flower,—then she came to me one night—

“Rufus!” she said, with a sob in her throat,—“Rufus, you’re right.”

I hadn’t cried till then, not a tear—but then I was torn in two—

There—it’s all right—my eyes don’t see as they used to do!

 

But O the joy of that battle—it was worth the whole of life,

You felt immortal in action with the rapture of the strife,

There in the dark by the river, with the flashes by fire before,

Running and crashing along, there in the dark, and the roar

Of the guns, and the shrilling cheers, and the knowledge that filled your heart

That there was a victory making and you must do your part.

But—there’s his grave in the orchard where the headstone glimmers white;

We could see it, we thought, from our window even on the darkest night;

It is set there for a sign that what one lad could do

Would be done by a hundred hundred lads whose hearts were stout and true.

And when in the time of trial you hear the recreant say,

Shooting his coward lips at us, “You shall have had your day;

For all your state and glory shall pass like a cloudy wrack,

And here some other flag shall fly where flew the Union Jack,”—

Why, tell him a hundred thousand men would spring from these sleepy farms,

To tie that flag in its ancient place with the sinews of their arms;

And if they doubt you and put you to scorn, why you can make it plain,

With the tale of the gallant Lincoln men and the fight at Lundy’s Lane.

O the long days and nights! The days that bring

No sunshine that my shrinking soul can bear,

The nights that soothe not. All the airs of France,

Soft and sun-steeped, that once were breath of life,

Now stir no magic in me. I could weep—

Yet can I never weep—to see the land

That is my land no more! For where the soul

Doth dwell and the heart linger, there

Alone can be the native land, and I have left

Behind me one small spot of barren earth

That is my hold on heav’n!

 

                  You bid me tell

My story? That were hard. I have no art

And all my words have long been lost amid

The greater silences. The birds—they knew

My grief, nor did I feel the need of speech

To make my woe articulate to the wind!

If my tale halts, know ’tis the want of words

And not the want of truth.

 

                  ’Twas long, you say?

Yes, yet at first it seemed not long. We watched

The ship recede, nor vexed them with a prayer.

Was not his arm about me? Did he not

Stoop low to whisper in my tingling ear?

The little Demon-island was our world,

So all the world was ours—no brighter sphere

That swung into our ken in purple heaven

Was half so fair a world! We were content.

Was he not mine? And I (he whispered this)

The only woman on love’s continent!

How can I tell my story? Would you care

To hear of those first days? I cannot speak

Of them—they lie asleep so soft within

My heart a word would wake them? I’ll not speak that word!

 

                  There came at last a golden day

When in my arms I held mine own first-born,

And my new world held three. And then I knew,

Mid joy so great, a passion of despair!

I knew our isle was barren, girt with foam

And torn with awful storm. I knew the cold,

The bitter, cruel cold! My tender babe,

What love could keep him warm? Beside my couch

Pale famine knelt with outstretched, greedy hand,

To snatch my treasure from me. Ah, I knew,

I knew what fear was then!

 

                  We fought it back,

That ghost of chill despair. He whom I loved

Fought bravely, as a man must fight who sees

His wife and child defenceless. But I knew—

E’en from the first—the unequal strife would prove

Too long, the fear too keen! It wore his strength

And in his eyes there grew the look of one

Who grapples time, and will not let it go,

Yet feels it slipping, slipping—

 

                  Ah, my dear!

I saw you die, and could not help or save—

Knowing myself to be the awful care

That weighed thee to thy grave!

 

                  The world held two

Now—one so frail and small, and one made strong

By love and weak by fear. That little life!

It trembled in my arms like some small flame

Of candle in a stealthy draught that blows

And blows again—one never knows from whence,

Yet feareth always—till at last, at last,

A darkness falls! So came the dark to me—

And it was night indeed!

 

                  Beside my love

I laid my lovely babe. And all fear fled;

For where joy is there only can fear be.

They fear not who have nothing left to fear!

• • • • • •

So that is all my tale. I lived, I live

And shall live on, no doubt. The changeful sky

Is blue in France, and I am young—think you

I am still young! Though joy has come and passed

And I am gazing after with dull eyes!

 

One day there came a sail. It drew near

And found me on my island, all alone—

That island that had once held all the world—

They succored me and brought me back again

To sunny France, and here I falter through

This halting tale of mine. And now ’tis told

I pray you speak of it no more!

 

If I would sleep o’ nights my ears must close

To that sad sound of waves upon the beach,

To that sad sound of wind that waileth so!

To visions of the sun upon the sea

And green, grass-covered mounds, bleak, bleak, but still

With early flowers clustering here and there!

Came Jean Brébeuf from Rennes, in Normandy,

To preach the written word in Sainte Marie—

The Ajax of the Jesuit enterprise:

Huge, dominant and bold—augustly wise.

The zealot’s flame deep in the hot brown eyes

That glowed with strange and holy whisperings,

And searched the stars, and caught angelic wings

Beating through visions of mysterious things.

Once, in the sky, a cross and martyr’s crown

Hung o’er the squalor of the Huron town.

And spectres, armed with javelin and sword,

Foreshadowed the dread army of the Lord;

But, onward through the forest, to his fate

Marched the great priest, unawed by Huron hate:

In every scourge he glimpsed the sacred Tree

And the dear Master of his embassy.

 

’Twas in St. Louis, where the Hurons lay,

Screened from the blue sweep of the Georgian Bay,

That the frail brother Lalemant, and Brébeuf,

Built a strange sanctuary, whose trembling wall

Was birchen bark, on whose long, curving roof

Lay tawny skins. A spirit seemed to call

In supplication through the holy place

For some strong mercy on the untamed race

That, naked, sat in this thrice wondrous room;

And, peering through the incense-burdened gloom,

Stared at the altar, where the black-robes bent

O’er the bright vessels of their sacrament.

 

Till, on the grim and memorable day,

When, to the Host, they bade their converts pray,

There flashed a gasping runner through the wood:

“The Iroquois! The Iroquois!” he cried.

As fire that stings the forest into blood

And drives red gales of ruin far and wide,

So frenzied fear ran riot, in a flood

That surged convulsive. But the great priest stood

Like a strong tower, when fretted billows race

Tumultuously about its massy base:

“Courage, my children, through the flame I see

The dear white Christ, whose long sought sons are ye.”

 

Then suddenly from out the wood there rose

The shouting of innumerable foes,

And waves of painted warriors from the glade

Swept, yelping, through the tottering palisade.

Were devils ere so murderous as men

In whose brown breasts those devils breathed again,

When agony the shuddering sky assailed,

When age and youth in choking anguish wailed?

Torn from the breast, the child was cleft in twain,

The mother shrieked, then fell among the slain;

Age had no power to swerve the dripping knife,

Youth gained but torture as the end of life,

The wounded perished in the bursting flame

That left St. Louis but a woeful name.

But ’midst the dead and dying moved the priest,

Closing dead eyes, speeding the soul released;

“Absolvo te”—to trembling lips the word

Descended from the Hurons’ new found Lord.

And, ere the night took pity on the dead,

Brébeuf and Lalemant in chains were led;

And one, the giant of Normandy, was bound

To a great stake; when staring boldly round

With ardent gaze, he saw the convert throng

Captive “Have courage! It will not be long;

Torture is but salvation’s earthly price.

To-day we meet the Christ in Paradise.”

 

O heart of iron, O strange supernal zeal,

That braves the fire, the torture and the steel!

O torn and shrinking flesh that yet can find

The crown of thorns mysteriously entwined!

O sightless orbs that still their Lord discern,

Howe’er the coals their blackened sockets burn.

 

Thus sped the Jesuit’s triumphant soul.

And Lalemant, ere the rising of the sun,

Achieved through torment his far-shining goal.

And all the Huron missions, one by one,

Were driven by the Iroquois like spray

That strong winds snatch and swiftly whirl away.

 

Sleep, Lalemant! Brébeuf, a long surcease!

Still moves your martyr’s spirit through the glade;

Still mourns the northern forest, when the peace

And benediction of the twilight shade

Awakens in the dark memorial pines

A velvet-footed, cedar-scented breeze,

That whispers where the green and knotted vines

Enmesh the cloistered colonnade of trees.

Fierce pounds the surf against the crag to-night;

(Up and follow, brothers, when he calls.)

The sullen fog lies thickly on the sight;

The fortress laughs up there in our despite;

One narrow strip of sand, and breakers left and right,

But Wolfe is calling. Follow when he calls.

 

The ambushed guns have launched their deadly roar;

(Steady, brothers, follow where he leads.)

The narrow strip of sand runs red with gore;

Through splintered planks the mocking waters pour;

’Tis ours to flee to safety or drive to death ashore;

But not a man will fail him now at need.

 

Five ugly teeth grin black upon our lee,

(Pull like madmen, brothers, weal or woe.)

Grim teeth that crunch their prey with horrid glee;

The red wave gulfs us, fighting hand and knee.

God only knows if ever more we’ll see our village quay,

But if we follow Wolfe we’ll see the foe.

 

The Flag is flying o’er the forest steep.

(Nor more calling, brothers. Rest you now.)

England’s task is finished; rest and sleep.

He’ll call us when there’s other corn to reap,

And we’ll follow him to glory or join those in the deep,

But no one calls to-day, so rest you now.

Though I have told the story till my thoughts

Flow like a mountain echo that repeats

Unchanged the phrases which have gone before,

The day still half eludes my memory,

Returning fitfully as does a dream

That haunts the waking hours and will not be

Formed into words. Across the stretch of years

Comes back the recollection of those weeks—

The ravished homesteads of Niagara,

Where women waited watching the infirm;

The ceaseless dread of battle and of death;

The rumors and the slowly spreading news;

The tending of the wounded friend and foe;

And then the night when an unguarded tongue

Told of the plan to crush the band of men

Whose valor blocked the strong invaders’ path.

All through the darkness loomed the single thought

Of warning my devoted countrymen,

For well I knew that I, alone, could go.

 

Like long, slow waves upon a sandy beach,

The rose-hued dawn flowed up from cloud to cloud:

The maples on the height were color-strewn,

But in the hollows night was brooding still.

As ’mid the tearful columbine I turned

To see once more the nests beneath the eaves,

And all the clustered vines about the door,

The birds awoke. Deep in the thicket’s hedge

A robin whistled blithely, and would pause

Only to swell his throat with shriller joy.

Then, like an answer to the call of morn,

A sentry’s challenge from the roadway rang;

My trembling voice would scarcely make reply,

But he saluted, speaking jestingly

Of those who in the war had luck enough

To find a sickbed and a careful nurse,

The while their comrades, drenched with chilly dew,

Counted at night the weary hours away,

And turned from me to watch a bird that toiled

Across the marshland, calling plaintively:

While I sped on, until beyond his sight

I left the highway for the trackless wood.

 

Oh! how I feared to face the tangled way

I knew was safest. All the brushwood seemed

To crouch and watch me. If a leaf but stirred

I saw within the gloomy depths the light

Of gleaming eyes; and when a catbird wailed

Among the pine trees, round my heart I felt

A sudden clutch and all my pulses throbbed

Like hammers beating on a molten brain.

Between the hills the clods of sodden earth

Cringed ’neath my feet; there rank thick grasses lay

Heavy with too much rain, a matted heap,

And as I passed, a sudden frightened snake

Glided away and in the reeds was gone.

Sullen beneath the root-veined dripping banks

The torrent swept, as some great monster moves

That waits in strength the coming of its prey.

There where a giant tree stretched across the stream

I climbed with trembling arms, and when I gazed

Into the muddy, white-flecked depths below

The slimy mosses gave within my hands.

And green-tipped branches crushed beneath my weight

Until I dragged, half-fainting, up the steep,

And heard the thwarted waters leap and rage,

Then fall and swirl in eddies on their way.

At length my thoughts became a numb, dim dream,

And still I sped, but oh! my weary feet

Seemed weighted with the marsh. I only knew

The warning that I bore must reach its goal;

These were the words with which I made my strength

Whene’er I feared I could not stagger on.

And though the banks were clamoring with flowers,

I knew their presence as one feels at night

That all the hedges down the lane are white

With sweet-breathed bloom of May. Onward I trailed,

A heaviness which ever seemed to grow—

Even the breezes’ pressure held me back—

Until I topped a height, and on the slope

That spread before me saw a little band

Of strange fantastic men who, with a rush

Like demons, hemmed me in. I faltered not.

It was as though my aching brain were dulled

And glutted with the terrors I had passed,

So to the circling Indians I cried

Their Captain’s name. Waiting no further word,

They bore me onward.

 

                  To my ears there came

A rushing sound of voices; round me forms

Floated like shades, until there spoke a man

Whose words each rang out sharp as a command.

Afar I heard a voice, thin as the pipe

Of some tired bird after a sun-scorched day,

Or like the whisper of a spirit passed

Into the silence, that still tried to breathe

A word of comfort for the stricken home.

I marked it struggle full of weariness,

But fail not till the story had been told

Of danger and the coming of the foe.

Then as I swayed and stretched out clutching hands,

I knew that distant, toneless voice was mine.

That man is brave who at the nod of fate

Will lay his life a willing offering down,

That they who loved him may know length of days;

May stay awhile upon this pleasant earth

Drinking its gladness and its vigor in,

Though he himself lie silent evermore,

Dead to the gentle calling of the Spring,

Dead to the warmth of Summer; wrapt in dream

So deep, so far, that never dreamer yet

Has waked to tell his dream. Men there may be

Who, careless of its worth, toss life away,

A counter in some feverish game of chance,

Or, stranger yet, will sell it day by day

For toys to play with; but a man who knows

The love of life and holds it dear and good,

Prizing each moment, yet will let it go

That others still may keep the precious thing—

He is the truly brave!

 

                      This did Cadieux,

A man who loved the wild and held each day

A gift from Le Bon Dieu to fill with joy

And offer back again to Him who gave.

(See, now, Messieurs, his grave!) We hold it dear

The story you have heard—but no? ’Tis strange,

For we all know the story of Cadieux!

He was a Frenchman born. One of an age

That glitters like a gem in history yet,

The Golden Age of France! ’Twould seem, Messieurs,

That every country has a Golden Age?—

Ah well, ah well!—

 

                      But this Cadieux, he came

No one knew whence, nor cared, indeed, to know.

His simple coming seemed to bring the day,

So strong was he, so gallant and so gay—

A maker of sweet songs; with voice so clear

’Twas like the call of early-soaring bird

Hymning the sunrise; so at least ’twould seem

Mehwatta thought—the slim Algonquin girl

Whose shy black eyes the singer loved to praise.

She taught him all the soft full-throated words

With which the Indian warriors woo their brides,

And he taught her the dainty phrase of France

And made her little songs of love, like this:

 

        “Fresh is love in May

           When the Spring is yearning,

         Life is but a lay,

           Love is quick in learning.

 

        “Sweet is love in June;

           All the roses blowing

         Whisper ’neath the moon

           Secrets for love’s knowing.

 

        “Sweet is love alway

           When life burns to embers,

         Hearts keep warm for aye

           With what love remembers!”

 

Their wigwam rose beside the Calumet

Where the great waters thunder day and night

And dawn chased dawn away in gay content.

Then it so chanced, when many moons were spent,

The brave Cadieux and his brown brothers rose

To gather up their wealth of furs for trade;

And in that moment Fate upraised her hand

And, wantonly, loosed Death upon the trail,

Red death and terrible—the Iroquois!

(Oh, the long cry that rent the startled dawn!)

One way alone remained, if they would live—

The Calumet, the cataract—perchance

The good Saint Anne might help!

 

                  “In God’s name, go!

Push off the great canoe, Mehwatta, go!—

Adieu, petite Mehwatta! Keep good cheer.

Say thou a prayer; beseech the good Saint Anne!—

For two must stay behind to hold the way,

And shall thy husband fail in time of need?

And would Mehwatta’s eyes behold him shamed?—

Adieu!”—Oh, swift the waters bear them on!

Now the good God be merciful! . . . . .

 

. . . . . . . . . . . They stayed,

Cadieux and one Algonquin, and they played

With a bewildered foe, as children play,

Crying “Lo, here am I!” and then “Lo, here!” “Lo, there!”

Their muskets spoke from everywhere at once—

So swift they ran behind the friendly trees,

They seemed a host with Death for General—

And the fierce foe fell back.

 

          But ere they went

Their winged vengeance found the Algonquin’s heart.

Cadieux was left alone!

 

          Ah, now, brave soul,

Began the harder part! To wander through

The waking woods, stern hunger for a guide;

To see new life and know that he must die;

To hear the Spring and know she breathed “Adieu”!

. . . One wonders what strange songs the forest heard?

What poignant cry rose to the lonely skies

To die in music somewhere far above

Or fall in sweetness back upon the earth—

The requiem of that singer of sweet songs!

They found him—so—with cross upon his heart,

His cold hand fast upon this last Complaint—

 

“Ends the long trail—at sunset I must die!

I sing no more—O little bird, sing on

And flash bright wing against a brighter sky!

 

“Sing to my Dear, as once I used to sing;

Say that I guarded love and kept the faith—

Fly to her, little bird, on swifter wing.

 

“The world slips by, the sun drops down to-night—

Sweet Mary, comfort me, and let it be

Thy arms that hold me when I wake to light!”

            ’Twixt the stream and forest tall,

            Seven leagues from Montreal

Lay Verchères. The yellow harvest shook its golden-bearded head.

“Pioneers, come, cut and bind me,” every nodding tassel said,

            Till the reapers sought the grain;

            Scythe and sickle swing amain

In the clear autumnal weather; left the fortress all unguarded,

Left the blockhouse without watcher and the bastions unwarded—

            Maid and matron labored there

            For the harvest of Verchères.

 

            Ran a whispered word that day,

            Where the silent redmen lay

Peering through the screen of branches at the reapers and the grain:

Iroquois, athirst for carnage, from the fastness of Champlain.

            And the Indian yell arose

            As they leaped upon their foes,

Till the clear autumnal noonday saw the death-blow flash and fall

Fierce on man and maid and matron—heard the hoarse triumphant call—

            Not a reaper did they spare

            For the harvest of Verchères.

 

            From the stricken fields a cry

            Reached the fortress: “It is I,

Madeleine. Oh, haste ye, haste ye! Arm! The Iroquois are here!

And the grain is red with slaughter and their feet are drawing near.

            I have seen a hundred foemen—

            Tho’ the half of us be women,

We will fight them for our country—we will fight them to the end,

And the Lord is God of battle—He will help us to defend,

            He will strengthen us to dare.”

            Thus spoke Madeleine Verchères.

 

            Swift and stormy fell the gloom

            O’er the silent fields of doom,

And there came a sound of marching from the bristling palisade,

Where a tiny squadron followed on the footsteps of the maid:

            Age and youth arose to fight

            In the horror of the night;

And the hands that gripped the musket feeble were, and very tender,

For the children grew to warriors, and a girl was the defender

            When the redmen came to stare

            At the fortress of Verchères.

 

            Still and starless crept the hours

            Where the slaughtered kissed the flowers

Strewn amid the beaten harvest. In the shadows lay the foe,

Heard the sentries fling their challenge, heard the footsteps come and go;

            Till the firm, unceasing tramp

            Sounded like an armed camp,

And the muskets’ sudden flashing stabbed the darkened air with red

Like a quick and angry question—an imperious voice that said:

            “Death is crouching everywhere

            On the bastions of Verchères.”

 

            Hour by hour the watch was kept,

            Night by night the challenge leapt,

For the sword of France was naked and the soul of France beat high,

And the redmen shrank from battle as the days went drifting by;

            While the glint of weapons broke

            From beneath each army cloak,

As the women paced the ramparts with a martial step and steady,

With the gaze of hooded falcons, with the musket priming ready,

            As a password to declare

            The defiance of Verchères.

 

            Vengeful, thro’ the forest glade,

            Came La Monnerei to aid,

And the foemen slipped like shadows to the fastness of Champlain

Ere he saw the dead men lying in the field of beaten grain:

            Ere he saw the sentries stand

            At a word of quick command,

Where the flag of France still bourgeoned on the parapeted wall,

And the guarded gate swung open and he heard a maiden call:

            “Sir, into your stronger care

            Take the fortress of Verchères.”

 

            Search the long historic page

            Of our country. Age by age

Read of valor’s blazoned tribute, mark each monumental stone,

Add the countless host of heroes who have smiled at death—alone—

            Who have left us not a name

            We can honor and proclaim:

Then in humbleness and pride at the treasure-house of glory

Carve another name beside, deep engrave another story

            Of a maiden young and fair—

            Dauntless Madeleine Verchères!

Watching amid the driving rain,

While still the storm cast darker shade

Upon the darkness, we could hear

The guns mock heaven’s cannonade,

And send the warning call again

Down to the distant fort where Brock

Had waited long for this attack.

We knew that morn would bring the shock,

And we must bear the foeman back:

’Twas then we tasted fear—

The fear of men who had not known

The brunt of war. The dreaded thing

Loomed o’er us, leaderless, alone.

It was not peril that dismayed,

But of ourselves we stood afraid;

We knew not what the day might bring.

 

At dawn the rocky height which lay

Above us broke the fog and cloud,

That lifted like a sable shroud,

Caught by the dripping hand of day.

We saw old Queenston’s wind-torn steep,

Whose summit held the sun’s pale gleam;

We saw the foam-flecked river sweep

Against the boats that crossed the stream;

We saw our comrades guard the space

Above the landing-place.

We heard sharp hoof-beats. From the way

That led down to Fort George he came

Into our midst. We cheered his name,

“Sir Isaac Brock!”

We were no longer men at bay.

Then from the broken heaps of rock

Above our heads flashed jets of flame:

The foes were on the height.

A gallant few had dared to climb

The pathway wet with moss and slime

And choked with tangled vines and grass,

Where fishermen could barely pass

Ere summer’s growth had blocked the way.

Their flag was flaunting in our sight,

Planted as though entrenched to stay.

 

His order reached us firm and clear,

And we would follow him though death

Rained from the bushes. Standing still

A moment, we surveyed the slope.

Our beating pulses seemed to fill

Our ears with sound—it was not fear.

Each soldier caught his eager breath,

And felt the throbbing call of hope.

Straining as though the danger lay

Only behind us, with a rush

We leaped up through the underbrush,

For we had heard our leader say,

“York Volunteers, on, on!”

All thought that we might fail was gone;

His voice had kindled us anew,

Giving fresh strength to heart and arm;

We cared not where the bullets flew—

Their whistle did not speak of harm,

For we had work to do.

 

Gone! once again we were alone,

Borne onward like the wind-blown hail,

And he had fallen. With a moan

He staggered to his knees, and we

Could not return to aid, or see

The light beneath his eyelids fail,

Or hear the words he gasped in pain

For those he ne’er would meet again,

Who waited for him far away,

Weary with watching day by day.

 

He fell, and all seemed blotted out.

Would valor he had wakened go?

Would victory be turned to rout?

That day of battle answered, No.

His mighty spirit lingered still;

It urged us forward up the hill

Each time we charged, a ranging flood

Of men who mourned a hero slain.

His presence was with us again

When we began the slow retreat,

Plodding our way with aching feet

Through miles of swamp until we swept

Down on the panic-stricken foe.

Our Indians avenged his blood,

But we, who knew the goal was won

And that the work he planned was done,

Moved with a deadly silence when

We hurled our solid line of men

Across the space and cleared the height.

And like a curtain fell the night.

 

Yet in the triumph we still kept

A thought of him. We learned to know

His code of war, his honor pure,

His call to act and to endure;

And through the darkest months they stayed

Among us to inspire and aid;

Until at times I saw him stand,

A figure guarding our fair land.