Canadian Battlefields, and Other Poems

Redly the October sun shone that day
O’er the golden landscape stretching away
To the Laurentian Hills, o’er vale and stream
As lovely as ever a poet’s dream.
O’er the land of the Maple Leaf so fair
Stole the wandering breeze, caressing there
With light, soft fingers, and murmuring low
Through the fading foliage, dying slow.
’Twas the peace of nature, touchingly grand,
Brooding over this fair Canadian land.

But another scene draws our thoughts away
To the far-famed field of the Chateauguay.
There beside it War’s trumpets fiercely blare;
And marshalling foemen are forming there!
The invader dares to pollute our soil;
But brave, true men will his purpose foil.
Noble de Salaberry, knowing no fear,
Dreads not the foe, who by thousands draw near.
Gallantly those Frenchmen stand by his side,
Sharpshooters, every one, true and tried;
And they coolly wait the oncoming foe,
And the river goes by in gentle flow.

“They come! they come! Voltigeurs, steady!
Aim low, aim low,—be calm now and ready;
Ye fight for your homes, and country so fair—
Yield not an inch, nor ever despair.”
Their rifles they raised, aimed steady and well,
Fired low, and hundreds before them fell!

The foe now open with thunderous roar;
Shot and shell from their guns they hotly pour.
Unflinching, the Voltigeurs firmly stand,
Though storm’d at by masses on every hand.
Swift volleys they hurl on the assaulting foe,
Sure and deadly by the river’s flow.

Checked in their advance by the Voltigeurs,
Who heroically the storm endure;
Patiently, though suffering loss and pain,
Their position they proudly, sternly maintain.

By sheer numbers being nearly surrounded,
Though the foe are stunned and confounded,
’Tis a critical time at Chateauguay.
Will de Salaberry in despair give way?
No! in sterner mould is the hero cast,
And will bar the way of the foe to the last.
Ah! a clever ruse he’s adopting now,
And a smile flits over his noble brow.

He extends his buglers widely in rear,
To sound the charge and lustily cheer.
’Twas a clever thought, and a master-stroke;
On the startled ear of the foe it broke,
And, frightened, they everywhere give way—
Lost is the field, and lost is the day.
Breaking into instant, headlong retreat,
From humiliating and sore defeat,
Over the border they swiftly fly,
And the “Red Cross Banner” still floats on high.

All hail, de Salaberry! hail, Voltigeurs!
Thy fame still lives, it forever endures;
Ye sternly barred there the foe that day,
By the far-famed stream of the Chateauguay.

And redly the October sun sank low,
Flooding the world with its crimsoning glow;
And the shadows fell on the golden scene
As beautiful as e’er a poet’s dream.
And the pale, dead faces were laid away
By the murmuring stream of the Chateauguay!
And white-winged peace hovered there once more
In the fading light by the river’s shore.

THE DEEP MINES.

Delve down in the deep mines, O restless man!
Wrest from the deep mines the red, red gold;
Seize the diamonds and the precious gems;
In the deep, vast mines lies wealth untold.
Win from the deep sea, from the uttermost sea,
The hoarded treasures of Neptune’s realm.
Command thou thine own staunch, dauntless barque;
Hold the chart, and thyself guide the helm.

Quaff thou from the deep things of life, O man,
The things that make life more broad and great.
Revere the good, the noble, and true;
Grasp destiny from the hand of fate;
Chain the elements to thy chariot wheels;
Count all things subservient to thy will—
The things that ennoble assimilate,
Pure as the cool, sparkling mountain rill.

Drink thou of the deep wells of love, O man!
For life is empty without its sway;
The love of friends, and e’en our fellowman,
Make darkest night seem bright as the day.
Be kind, considerate of thy brother;
Smooth somewhat if thou canst his rugged way;
Bear each other’s burdens, battle side by side—
United ye shall surely win the day.

Delve deep in thine own bosom, O man!
Pluck gems of thought that dormant lie;
Let thy fiery energy and deathless zeal
Move the hearts of men, lift their souls on high.
If thou canst not o’er the mountain go,
Penetrate it to the vale beyond;
Look upward and onward, brave, pure soul,
And Fortune may touch thee with her wand.

But if o’ertaken by an adverse fate,
And thy dreams of greatness fade away,
Front thou the storm and battle’s fiery rage;
Yield but to death—death’s lurid, fatal day!
If all thy years should lead by lowly ways,
Where wealth and fame ne’er ope their shining wings,
Be comforted, do thy humble duty well,
In heaven thou mayst be honored more than kings.

LAURA SECORD; OR, THE BATTLE OF BEAVER DAMS.

Fought June 24th, 1813. British, 47 Regulars and 200 Indians Americans, 570, with 50 Cavalry and 2 Guns.

She knew, and her heart beat faster,
The foe would march that day;
And resolved, though only a woman,
To silently steal away
And warn the outpost at Beaver Dams;
Alone, and on foot, to go
Through the dim and awesome forest,
To evade the vigilant foe.

No one thought of a woman,
And she gained a path she knew
In the lonesome, stately forest,
And over the dark way flew.
On and on with a beating heart,
And never a pause for rest;
Twenty miles of dim and distance,
And the sun low down the west.

Startled sometimes to terror
By the blood-curdling cry
Of wolves from the faint far distance,
And sometimes nearer by;
And hollow sounds and whispers
That rose from the forest deep;
Ghostly and phantom voices
That caused her nerves to creep.

But she pauses not, nor falters,
But presses along the way;
Noiselessly through the distance,
Through the shadows weird and gray.
In time must the warning be given,
She must not, must not fail;
Though rough is the path and toilsome,
Her courage must prevail.

“To arms! to arms, FitzGibbon!”
Came a woman’s thrilling cry;
“Lose not a precious moment—
The foe! the foe is nigh!”
And a woman pale and weary
Burst on the startled sight;
Out from the dark awesome forest,
Out of the shadowy night.

“They come! they come, six hundred strong,
Stealing upon you here!
But I, a weak woman, tell you,
Prepare and have no fear.”
The handful of British heroes
Resolve the outpost to save,
With the aid of two hundred Indians,
Allies cunning and brave.

Still as death the line is waiting
The onset of the foe;
And the summer winds make whisper
In the foliage soft and low.
“Ready!” and each heart beat faster;
“Fire low, and without fear.”
And they fired a crashing volley,
And gave a defiant cheer.

Staggered by the deadly missiles,
That like a mighty blow,
Fell swift on the line advancing,
Fell on the astonished foe.
And for two long, desperate hours
The furious fight raged there;
Till the foemen, foiled and beaten,
Surrendered in despair.

Well done, gallant FitzGibbon!
Thy name shall live in story;
Thy daring feat of arms that day
Is wreathed with fadeless glory.
One other name my song would praise,
A patriot soul so brave,
That dared the forest’s lonely wilds
FitzGibbon’s post to save.

Noble woman! heroic soul!
We would honor thee to-day;
Thou canst not, shall not be forgot.
More lustrous is the ray
Time reflects upon thy deed.
Thy talismanic name—
Canadians, sound it through the land,
Perpetuate her fadeless fame!

THE SEA AND THE SOUL.

Oh, the sea! the sea! how it stirs my soul,
As its bright bounding billows onward roll;
Unfettered they toss their crests on high,
As if to assault the far vaulted sky.

Oh, the sea! the sea! when it murmurs sweet,
And its silver waves fall down at my feet;
And it flashes and ripples in sunny smiles,
Far away by a thousand happy isles.

Oh, the sea! the sea! when the wild winds roar,
And its thunderous waves rush on the shore;
And the dread tempest sweeps the storm-torn sky,
And the world is drown’d in its madden’d cry.

Oh, the sea! the sea! when the stars’ pale light
Twinkle afar through the realms of night;
And the silver moon looks down on the tide,
O’er its undulating bosom far and wide.

Oh, the sea! the sea! unchained and free;
A limitless, typical mystery
Of eternity; how it rolls, it rolls,
And its awesome voice is warning men’s souls!

Oh, the sea! the sea! what of the lone graves
Of the lov’d and lost in thy unknown caves?
Where are the ships of a thousand stern years?
Man’s buried hopes, and his million tears?

But the sea! the sea! ’tis my glowing theme,
And I love to ponder beside it and dream,
With the lights and shadows falling between,
The weird phantom land of the might have been.

Oh, the sea! the sea! when I yearn for rest,
And the sun falls down in the purple west,
I seek thy shadowed and wave-worn shore,
And restful repose my bosom steals o’er.

THE BATTLE OF LUNDY’S LANE.

Fought July 25th, 1814. American Force, 5,000; British and Canadians, 2,800.

The summer sun down the sky fell low,
And soft, cool winds more gently did blow,
And the stream swept by with resistless flow
On that July eve of the long ago,—
A lovely landscape as ever was seen,
And nature’s serenity crowned the scene.
A gold light shimmered o’er hill and stream,
And the shadows lengthened softly between.
Thus o’er this beautiful Canadian land
Fell the hush of nature, soothing and bland.

But hark! on the startled ear there comes
The blare of trumpets and roll of drums,
And war’s dread panoply bursts on the scene,
With its rumbling roar and thunder between,
As the bannered foe draws proudly nigh,
And the outposts before them quickly fly.
But Drummond draws up on the famous plain,
On the undulations of Lundy’s Lane.

On a rise in the centre his guns he placed,
Deployed his infantry, and sternly faced
The menacing foe in battle-array,
As the shades crept out on the dying day.
Sixteen hundred dauntless, determined souls
The heroic Drummond proudly controls.

In contiguous lines the foe now comes,
To the blare of trumpet and beat of drums,
With supporting columns to reinforce
And cheer the lines on their onward course.
Drummond’s batteries open with deafening roar,
Shaking the trembling river and shore;
And hundreds go down in the deadly storm:
Torn are their ranks, but again they re-form,
Move forward once more with a rush and cry,
Confident that Drummond will turn and fly.
But he stands fast, and his battery flashes,
And his sturdy infantry volleys and crashes
On the brave advancing lines of the foe
Rushing up from the slope below.
Brown’s infantry charged to the battery’s side,
But to capture the guns in vain they tried.
They were met with the steel by Drummond’s men
And hurled confused down the slope again.
They tried it again—rushed forward once more,
But broke like a wave on a rock-bound shore!

Brown’s supports were brought up, and his cannon roared,
All along the lines the infantry poured
A withering, ceaseless and consuming fire:
And the rage of battle grew wilder, higher.
The enemy charged and charged again
Till their life-blood crimsoned the emerald plain,
And the awful din and the carnage there
Filled wives’ and mothers’ hearts with despair.

At length the long twilight closed around
The smoking cannon and death-strewn ground,
And the pitying night drew o’er the scene
Of horror a mournful and sable screen.
Still amid the darkness they fighting fell,
And the surging ranks bore a fire of hell!
Muzzle to muzzle the hot guns stormed,
Rending the ranks that again re-formed,
And rushed to the charge again and again
Through the infantry’s fire and batteries’ flame.
The guns were won, and retaken again
In the revel of death, at Lundy’s Lane.

Here Riall came up with twelve hundred more,
To the help of Drummond, bleeding and sore:
Twelve hundred Canadians and regulars to stand
To the death for this proud Canadian land.
The brave foe brought up reinforcements, too,
Determined Drummond’s lines to pierce through;
And they close in a mad, mad rush again,
And the roar of the hot guns shake the plain.
Lurid, red flashes illumine the night,
Revealing a moment the dreadful sight
Of the lines struggling there in the gloom,
Where hundreds go down to a gory doom.

But Drummond the foemen foiled everywhere,
And disheartened, on the verge of despair,
At the midnight hour they fled from the field,—
Broken and beaten, they were forced to yield.
Throwing their baggage in the stream, in fright
They fled away in a desperate plight.

The moon had risen o’er the pitiful scene,
Her lovely face, all mild and serene,
Lighting up the horror of carnage there,
Revealing the ghastly and upward stare
Of pale, dead faces peering out of the gloom,
Just touched by the silvery midnight moon.
Lay them away on the hard-fought field
Where the musketry volleyed and cannon pealed!
War’s tumult shall rouse them again no more,
The heroic dead by the river’s shore.
Slumber on, brave hearts! ye do battle no more
Near Niagara’s awesome, eternal roar!

Oh, land of the Maple Leaf so fair,
Breathe even to-day a fervent prayer
For those intrepid souls who, fighting, fell
For home and country they loved so well.
Canadians! tell it—repeat it again—
How our fathers stood there at Lundy’s Lane,
With the regulars fearlessly side by side—
Stood there as heroes, conquered and died.
To rescue this land from the invader’s tread
That field was piled with immortal dead.

MY WIFE.

I want her woman’s kisses,
I want her love and truth
And e’er as kind and gentle
As in the days of youth.
I want her e’er beside me,
Not enslaved, but free;
A help in time of trouble,
And a comfort unto me.

We’d share life’s joys together,
Of its ills bear equal part;
In storm, or sunny weather,
Trust each other’s faithful heart.
I’d have her loving counsel
When perplexed with care;
When the clouds are lowering,
And threatening everywhere.

I’d hear her happy laughter
Rippling light and gay;
And list her sweet voice singing
Tender songs, that drive away
The petty irritations
That fret life’s every day,
And if not quickly banished
Turn the bluest skies to gray.

I want her with the children
To guard their tender feet;
To soothe and ever bless them
With her presence fair and sweet.
’Tis mother’s subtle influence
That makes or mars us all:
By her early lessons given
We either rise or fall.

And when the skies are smiling
O’er all the summer land,
And nature is enraptured,
I’d clasp her gentle hand,
And list the songs that greet us,
Hear the wind’s plaint and sigh,
Wooing the summer’s beauty
As it softly treadeth by.

I’d look when twilight falleth
On the world in dreamy rest,
And golden rays still linger
In glory in the west.
In that rapt quiet hour
We’d watch the pale moon rise,
And in the tender silence
Dream of fadeless Paradise.

When the shadow-land I enter,
And fails life’s fleeting breath,
I’d cross the stream beside her,
The stream that we call death.
Life’s years of light and shadow,
Passed in sweet felicity,
Should be but the beginning
Of our day, eternity.

NIAGARA.

I was rapt in unutterable amaze
As I looked upon its awful front,
And saw the terrific roll of waters
As down the deadly mesmeric gorge they fell
In power irresistible, tremendous,
As if the wrath of God would rend the world asunder
For the sin and wrong that man hath done!
And the earth trembled as one in fear—
And the thunderous roar of its awesome voice
Made all else seem silent as the dead!

Yet, majestic and supremely beautiful art thou
When the god of day pours o’er thy front his wondrous light,
Or when the golden stars and dreaming, silvery moon
Lighteth up the slumb’rous shadows of the night.
Aye, thou art sublime, though terrible, Niagara!
How diminutive are man’s works compared to thee!
Thou awe-inspiring, terrific world-wide wonder—
Marvellous work of the Deity!

And thou hast rolled and rolled, Niagara;
Adown the ages of the dim, mysterious past
Thou hast thundered in derision of the flight of time,
And mocked when nations to the grave were cast!
But the Creator holds thee in the hollow of His hand,
And when the sea shall render up its ghastly dead
Thou shalt be shorn of thy stupendous power,
And bow thy cruel and imperious head.

THE OJIBWAYS.

Along the shores of Point Pelee,
Three hundred years ago,
The summer sun in rapture shone,
And pure winds soft did blow.
The laughing waters rose and fell
In soft caressing lave;
And flashing sea-birds dipt their wings,
And white gulls skimmed the wave.

The mallard ducks in thousands flew
Along the rippling tide,
And eagles soared in heaven’s blue
In freedom far and wide;
And gay kingfishers watched the surf,
And divers cleaved the deep.
Across the waters far away
Stole murmurs strange and sweet.

The finny tribes in schools did glide
Along the sandy bars;
The splendor of their jewelled sides
Flashed up like silver stars.
The sturgeon floundered in their glee,
Mud pouts and cats at play—
A subtle gladness brooded there
Throughout the fair sweet day.

The warm south winds stole o’er the lake
Along the shifting bars;
The bright waves met in dashing foam,
Flashing like crystal stars.
And skies serene, divinely blue,
Met the enraptured gaze;
On the horizon far away
Hung a delicious haze.

Ashore! ashore! let’s leap ashore,
And glide ’neath cedar shade,
Where pine trees raise their fronded crests
O’er many a sylvan glade;
Where juniper in clusters grow,
And twining vines wreathe o’er
The nooks and winding velvet ways
That reach from shore to shore.

The walnut and the oak tree, too,
Their sturdy forms uprear;
The haunts of squirrel and raccoon,
Wild-cat and savage bear,
And mink and otter haunt these shades.
Their wants are all supplied;
Sleek creatures, how they frisk and play
In all their graceful pride!

Oft, too, is heard the howl of wolf,
When night-time closes down;
The sylvan glades, lost in the shades,
With their fierce cries resound.
The bounding deer and graceful fawn
Here, too, have made their home;
Untamed, unfettered, and all free,
These lovely haunts they roam.

Hark to that wave of melody,
That here so sweetly thrills;
It flows from all the nooks and glens,
And from the sunlit hills!
O wrens, and redbirds fair and sweet,
Jays, robins, join the song,
And bluebirds with the azure wing,
A blithe and happy throng!

The whippoorwill, and catbird, too,
Whose song steals on the night,
The chatter of the festive owl
That shouts in weird delight!
A thousand voices join the lay,
And rhythmic fluttering wings
Of every hue play interlude
To the hymn that nature sings.

See, the flowers of every hue—
Wild roses like a dream—
Breathe out their incense on the air,
Odorous and serene!
The lily and the violet sweet
Peep up on every side,
And buttercups and wild bluebells
In all their native pride.

CHAPTER II.

Ah! Nature with a lavish hand
Hath here her treasures strewn,
All undisturbed by ruthless man
That scathes and mars too soon.
Back o’er the silent phantom past,
Three hundred years ago,
Fair Point Pelee in rapture lay
Where laughing waters flow.

’Twas here the red man made his home,
Beneath the cedar shade;
The wigwams rose so quaint and queer
By quiet nook and glade.
This, the home of the Ojibways,
Fierce, untamed, and free;
They dwelt in peace and plenteousness
Beside this inland sea.

And Manitou had blest them so
With fish and luscious game;
The hunting grounds were so replete
Before the white man came!
Where now are termed the “Indian fields”
They grew the Indian corn,
And laugh and song with sweet content
Roused up the summer morn.

Far on the north the marshlands lay,
And pond, and wide lagoon;
The home of snipe and mallard ducks,
Geese, teal, and lonely loon.
Among the reeds, and rushes, too,
The muskrats built their homes;
They dotted o’er the wide expanse
With quaint, ingenious domes.

And Willow Island far away,
Stirred by the toying breeze
That makes the rice and grass fields wave
Like tossing emerald seas.
From east to west, from shore to shore,
The teeming marshlands lay;
The Narrows, by the western shore,
A picturesque causeway.

The pass that leads by Sturgeon Creek,
And circles Pigeon Bay,
By which are reached fair Seacliff Heights,
And regions far away;
And looking southward, where the sun
In golden splendor smiles
On Pelee Island, fitly crowned
The queen of Erie’s isles.

Aye, here it was, the red man’s home,
Three hundred years ago;
And peace and plenty blest his lot
By the bright water’s flow.
He had the teeming forest glades
For every kind of game;
And Erie’s fulness rendered up
Fine fish of every name.

He drew on all the wide marshlands
For furs both soft and warm;
The bear and wild wolf tribute gave;
And when the winter’s storm
Whitened upon the sleeping hills,
Prepared, and safe from harm,
The wigwams all with plenty stored,
He knew no fell alarm.

Ah! oft these shores resounded
To his children’s sport so gay,
And the songs of Indian maidens,
Graceful as fawns at play;
And the shout and free, wild laughter
Of youths at game by day;
Or as o’er the laughing waters
In canoes they bore away.

Sometimes to the distant islands,
Or over Pigeon Bay,
They went in bold adventure
By sun, or star’s pale ray.
But the chiefs and older huntsmen
Smoked in serene content;
Many moons had taught them wisdom,
Calmness they with pleasure blent.

Thus in the summer’s rapture
Life was a peaceful dream;
And when winter fell upon them
The wigwams were serene
With warmth, good cheer and comfort:
The red man loved his home;
From his kindred and his nation
His heart would never roam.

He believed in the Great Spirit;
His subtle soul would thrill
To the voices heard in nature,
That taught the Great Spirit’s will.
Strange, mysterious people!
Who can thy origin trace?
Are ye one of the lost ten tribes
Of Israel’s wandering race?

CHAPTER III.

Awake! awake, Ojibways!
To dream in peace no more,
For there comes a bold invader
From eastward by the shore.
Rowing in swift, strong bateaux,
With strokes both strong and long,
To the cadence of fearless voices
In a gay boatman’s song,

Come full two hundred singers,
In boats, a score or more,
Far o’er the laughing waters,
Skirting the eastern shore.
Who are they, these fearless strangers,
Armed with sword and lance,
With arquebuse and musketoon?
They are fiery sons of France,

Exploring the boundless forests,
Locating rivers and seas;
Ignoring the red man’s title,
Coming his rights to seize.
Ha! they spy the eastern outlet
That leads to the lagoon,
Far across the teeming marshlands,
The domain of teal and loon.

They enter with eager spirits
This strange tract to explore;
And halting not, they discover
Point Pelee’s western shore.
A causeway of cedar and hillock,
From lagoon to lake they trace;
And their bateaux quickly transport
By way of the Carrying Place.

And they gaze on the expansion,
And cheerily launch away,
And disappear in the distance,
Across wide Pigeon Bay.
The Ojibways in amazement
Saw this strange concourse pass by;
A foreboding premonition
Whispered of danger nigh.

Mitwaos in council assembled
His chiefs and warriors brave;
Many scores of fiery stalwarts,
Of countenance stern and brave.
And calmly they deliberated,
Counselling for peace or war;
Should they allow these daring strangers
Their sacred rights to mar?

After the chiefs had spoken
Of the pending dangers nigh,
It was finally decided
The strangers might pass by
In peace, and unmolested,
If they did not interfere
With the vast teeming hunting grounds
Of the nation, far and near.

When three moons had waxed and waned,
The voyageurs, returning, came
From over the western waters,
Lit by the sunset’s flame.
And they drew up at the Narrows,
The Carrying Place again,
A “cut” in the cedar hillocks
Aglow with autumn’s flame.

De Orville, their gallant leader,
And Pontgravé and Le Jeune,
Knew their followers were weary,
And made decision soon
To bivouac near the marshlands
For a day of needed rest,
And to replenish their commissariat
With fish and game the best.

The camp-fires were all alighted
At the eve’s afterglow,
And the pines and cedars quivered,
And the waves made murmur low.
The scene was worthy a Rembrandt,
So rich the light and shade,
And the starry vault above them,
And the winds that whisper made.

“A song! a song!” de Orville cried,
“The night is rife with glory.
Let’s while a merry hour away
In singing and in story.”
“A song! a song!” as one they cry,
“Life hath enough of sorrow;
Sing while we may with hearts so gay,
Care cometh with the morrow.”

“Le Jeune! Le Jeune! lead on, lead on,
The stars are laughing o’er us;
Give us thy latest and thy best,
And we will join the chorus.”
Le Jeune had a poetic soul,
And voice of wondrous sweetness;
He reached men’s better, nobler part,
And won them to completeness.

And the groups about the camp-fires,
A picturesque, gay throng,
Heard many a quaint old story,
Pun, laugh, and ringing song;
And thus ’mid the wilds of nature
Passed the joyous hours away.
Light-hearted, merry Voyageurs,
Ever gallant and gay,

Beside the deep glowing embers,
Passed the night in calm repose,
And in the soft early dawning
Refreshened they uprose;
And with arquebuse and musketoon,
Spear, trap, and fishing-line,
They scattered o’er the marshlands
And ’neath the haunts of pine.

And from the Narrows and the shore,
Marshlands and wide lagoons,
There burst the crash of arquebuse
And roar of musketoons.
And all day long the sport went on;
At eve they counted o’er
A tempting hoard of luscious game,
Right welcome to their store.