_Mr. Secord_. My God! and here am I, a paroled cripple!
Oh, Canada, my chosen country! Now--
Is't now, in this thy dearest strait, I fail?
I, who for thee would pour my blood with joy--
Would give my life for thy prosperity--
Most I stand by, and see thy foes prevail
Without one thrust?

[_In his agitation he rises_.

_Mrs. Secord_. Oh, calm thee, dear; thy strength is all to me.
Fitzgibbon shall be warned, or aid be sent.

_Mr. Secord_. But how, wife? how? Let this attempt succeed,
As well it may, and vain last year's success;
In vain fell Brock: in vain was Queenston fought:
In vain we pour out blood and gold in streams:
For Dearborn then may push his heavy force
Along the lakes, with long odds in his favour.
And I, unhappy wretch, in such a strait
Am here, unfit for service. Thirty men
Are all Fitzgibbon has to guard the stores
And keep a road 'twixt Bisshopp and De Haren.
Those stores, that road, would give the Yankee all.

_Mrs. Secord_. Why, be content now, dear. Had we not heard,
This plot might have passed on to its dire end,
Like the pale owl that noiseless cleaves the dark,
And, on its dreaming prey, swoops with fell claw.