Classic Poem

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.