Act 2 — 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?

[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.