Chapter 7

_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?

[_She rises and looks about_.

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.

[_She reseats herself, and contemplates the scene_.

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.

(_She rises to proceed, and at the first step a rattlesnake rears up at her, hissing and springing its rattles. She recoils in fear, but remembering the cowardly nature of the creatures, throws sticks at it, and it glides swiftly away_.)

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!

[_Exit_ MRS. SECORD.

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