  VISIT OF THE PRINCE OF WALES TO LAURA SECORDNOW wherefore trembles still the string By lyric fingers crossed, To Laura Secord's praise and fame, When forty years are lost? Nay, five and forty, one by one, Have borne her from the day When, fired by patriotic zeal, She trod her lonely way. Her hair is white, her step is slow, Why kindles then her eye, And rings her voice with music sweet Of many a year gone by? O know ye not proud Canada, With joyful heart, enfolds In fond embrace the royal boy Whose line her fealty holds? For him she spreads her choicest cheer, And tells her happiest tale, And leads him to her loveliest haunts, That naught to please may fail. And great art thou, O Chippewa, Though small in neighbours' eyes, When out Niagara's haze thou seest A cavalcade arise; And in its midst the royal boy Who, smiling, comes to see An ancient dame whose ancient fame Shines in our history. He takes the thin and faded hand, He seats him at her side, Of all that gay and noble band That moment well the pride. To him the aged Secord tells, With many a fervid glow, How, by her means, FitzGibbon struck His great historic blow. Nor deem it ye, as many do, A weak and idle thing That at that moment Laura loved The praises of a king; And dwelt on his approving smile, And kissed his royal hand, Who represented, and should wield, The sceptre of our land; For where should greatness fire her torch If not at greatness' shrine? And whence should approbation come Did not the gods incline? O BLESSED angel of the All-bounteous King, Where dost thou stay so long? our sad hearts pine, Our spirits faint for thee. Our weary eyes Scan all the blue expanse, where not a cloud Floats low to rest our vision. In vain we turn Or east or west, no vaporous haze, nor view Of distant panorama, wins our souls To other worlds. All, all is hard and scant. Thy brother Spring is come. His favourite haunts the sheltering woods betray— The woods that, dark and cheerless yet, call thee. Tender hepaticas peep forth, and mottled leaves Of yellow dog's tooth vie with curly fronds Of feathery ferns, in strewing o'er his path; The dielytra puts her necklace on, Of pearly pendants, topaz-tipped or rose. Gray buds are on the orchard trees, and grass Grows up in single blades and braves the sun. But thou!—O, where art thou, sweet early Rain, That with thy free libations fill'st our cup? The contemplative blue-bird pipes his note From off the ridge-cap, but can find no spot Fit for his nest. The red-breast on the fence Explores the pasture with his piercing eye, And visits oft the bushes by the stream, But takes no mate. For why? No leaves or tufts Are there to hide a house.... A-missing thee The husbandman goes forth with faltering step And dull sad eye; his sweltering team pulls hard The labouring plough, but the dry earth falls back As dead, and gives nor fragrant fume, nor clogs The plough-boy's feet with rich encumbering mould. The willows have a little tender green, And swallows cross the creek—the gurgling creek Now fallen to pools—but, disappointed, Dash away so swift, and fly so high We scarce can follow them. Thus all the land Doth mourn for thee.— Ah! here thou comest, sweet Rain. Soft, tender Rain! benison of the skies! See now, what transformation in thy touch! Straight all the land is green. The blossoming trees Put on their bridal wreaths, and veil their charms From the too ardent sun, beneath thy gift Of soft diaphanous tissue, pure and white As angels' raiment. Little wood children Deck all the path with flowers. The teeming earth Offers rich gifts. The little choristers Sing ceaseless hymns, and the glad husbandman Adds his diapason. Bright fountains wake And mingle with the swift roulade of streams. The earth is full of music! Thou dost swing Thy fragrant censer high, and dwellers in The dusty city raise their toil-worn heads From desk and bench, and cry "Summer is here!" And straight they smell new hay and clover blooms, And see the trout swift-darting in the brooks, And the plover whistling in the fields. The little children dream of daisy chains, And pent-up youth thinks of a holiday,— A holiday with romps, and cream, and flowers. O, Rain! O, soft, sweet Rain! O liberal Rain! Touch our hard hearts, that we may more become Like that Great Heart whose almoner art thou. |
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