Classic Poem

SCENE 2. — A beautiful glade .

Enter MRS. SECORD. — After scanning the spot searchingly, she seats herself on a fallen trunk .

Mrs. Secord . This spot is surely safe; here I will rest,
For unaccustomed service tires my limbs,
And I have travelled many a weary rood
More than a crow-line measures; ups and downs
Absorb so many steps that nothing add
To distance. Faint am I, too, and thirsty.
Hist! hist! ye playful breezes that do make
Melodious symphonies and rippling runs
Among the pines and aspens, hear I not
A little tinkling rill, that somewhere hides
Its sweet beneficence 'mid ferns and moss?

Ay, here it is: a tiny brilliancy
That glances at the light, as careful, still,
To keep the pure translucency that first
It caught from Heaven. Give me, oh give, sweet rill,
A few cool drops to slake my parching throat.
Fair emblem truly thou of those meek hearts
That thread the humblest haunts of suffering earth
With Christ-like charities, and keep their souls
Pure and untaint, by Heavenly communings.

O this is beautiful! Here I could lie —
Were earth a myth and all her trials nought —
And dream soft nothings all a summer's day.
In this fair glade were surely celebrate
The nuptials of the year: and for her gift,
Fair Flora, lightly loitering on the wing
Of Zephyrus, tossed all her corbel out,
Filling the air with bloom.
From yonder copse,
With kindling eye and hasty step, emerged
The gladsome Spring, with leafy honours crowned,
His following a troop of skipping lambs:
And o'er yon hill, blushing for joy, approached
His happy bride, on billowy odours borne,
And every painted wing in tendance bent.
Procession beautiful! Yet she how fair! —
The lovely Summer, in her robes of blue,
Bedecked with every flower that Flora gave, —
Sweet eglantine and meek anemone,
Bright, nodding columbine and wood-star white,
Blue violets, like her eyes, and pendant gems
Of dielytra, topaz-tipped and gold,
Fragrant arbutus, and hepatica,
With thousands more. Her wreath, a coronet
Of opening rose-buds twined with lady-fern;
And over all, her bridal-veil of white, —
Some soft diaph'nous cloudlet, that mistook
Her robes of blue for heaven. —
And I could dream
That, from his lofty throne beholding,
Great Sol, on wings of glowing eve, came down
In gracious haste, to bless the nuptials.
( She pauses .) And shall this land,
That breathes of poesy from every sod,
Indignant throb beneath the heavy foot
Of jeering renegade? at best a son
His mother blushes for — shall he, bold rebel
Entwine its glories in defiant wreath
Above his boastful brow, and flaunt it in
Her face, rejoicing in her woe? No! No!
This priceless gem shall ever deck her crown,
And grace its setting with a ray more pure
For that, nor flood, nor fire, can flaw its heart.
Yes, Canada, thy sons, at least, maintain
The ancient honour of their British blood,
In that their loyalty contracts no stain
From proffered gifts or gold.
But I must on. I may not loiter, while
So much depends on me.

Vile reptile!
Base as vile, and cowardly as base;
A straight descendant thou of him, methinks,
Man's ancient foe, or else his paraphrase.
Is there no Eden that thou enviest not?
No purity thou would'st not smirch with gall?
No rest thou would'st not break with agony?
Aye, Eve, our mother-tongue avenges thee,
For there is nothing mean, or base, or vile,
That is not comprehended in the name
Of SNAKE!