Classic Poem

" And why, my husband, why so pale? "
'Twas Laura Secord spoke;
And when she heard his plaintive tale,
Then all the patriot woke.

" Thou knowest how Fitzgibbon holds
The post at Beaver Dams,
And Dearborn frets, and fumes, and chafes,
And calls us British shams:

" Because we will not, willing, give,
To feed an alien foe,
The substance, all too poor and sparse,
Our stinted fields may grow.

" So when the Night puts on her robes
Of sad and sable hue,
A host he sends, of shameful strength,
To oust that noble few.

" And who shall warn Fitzgibbon? Who?
My weakness is my bale;
At such an hour of pressing need,
O that my aid should fail!

" And yet, my country, if my blood,
Drawn from me drop by drop,
Could save thee in this awful strait,
'Twere thine, 'twere thine, to stop.

" This massacre, this horrid crime,
To baulk this wicked plot!
My parole given! — by Heaven I could —
I Would — regard it not.

" But here am I, a cripple weak;
Great Heaven! and must they fall
Because I, wretched I alone,
Know what will sure befall! "

" Calm thee, my husband, calm thee now.
Heaven ne'er points out a deed,
But to the creature by whose means
Its action is decreed:

" Thou, had'st thou not been sick and lame,
Would'st ne'er have learned this plot,
And had'st thou strength thou could'st not pass
The lines, and not be shot.

" Wherefore, 'tis plain, 'tis not to thee
The careful task is given;
'Tis rather me; and I will go,
Safe in the care of Heaven. "

" Thou go, dear wife! a woman soft,
And not too brave to shake
At sight of wolf or catamount,
Or many-rattled snake:

" Thou go! " " Nay, smile not, I will go;
Fitzgibbon shall not fall
Unwarned at least; and Heaven will guard
Its messenger-in-thrall. "