Death of Brock by Charles Edwin Jakeway

jakeway
Brock’s Monument on Queenston Heights and Cenotaph Erected on Spot Where He Fell in Battle. Photo from 1908
Image courtesy of the Library of Congress.

The roll of the drum breaks the sleep of the morning,
….As it rocks back and forth in the dawning’s embrace,
And the bugle’s wild echoes sing widely the warning
….That the enemy’s hosts are approaching the place.

From their dreams spring the soldiers, alert for the greeting
….That foemen to foemen are eager to make,
And they grasp up their weapons in haste for the meeting
….Of bayonet with bayonet in thicket and brake.

Through field and through forest the columns advancing,
….Like foam-crested waves on a shore’s rocky head,
Come with flashing of bayonets and mettled steeds prancing,
….The ranks of the blue ‘gainst the ranks of the red.

Then suddenly rings out the musketry’s rattle,
….And thunders the tone of the cannon’s deep boom,
As fiercely they join in the tumult of battle,
….When many brave soldiers are sent to their doom.

Aloft on the breeze is the British flag flying,
….And round it the death-missives whistle and sing
A dirge for the soldiers, who proudly are dying—
….Are dying for freedom, for country and king.

There are veterans there who have fought the world over,
….Regardless of danger, disdainful of death,
And grimly they fall on the sere faded clover,
….And cheer for their king with their fast-failing breath.

There , too, in the carnage and tumult beside them
….Are those who came forth at young Canada’s call,
And though torment and danger and death may betide them,
….They will fight on to vict’ry, or fight till they fall.

They had answered the bugle’s sharp summons of warning,
….Those stout-hearted heroes, the York Pioneers,
And forth in the dusky gray dawn of the morning,
….Had marched to the conflict untrammelled by fears.

And now they are fighting for all they hold dearest,
….Their sweethearts and wives ,and the country they love :
As they think of the ones that their hearts hold the nearest,
….“Protect them !” they gasp to the Father above.

Oh , wilder and fiercer the conflict is growing,
….And sorely the ranks of the red are oppressed,
And fast is the flood of the crimson tide flowing,
….That is draining the lives of the bravest and best !

Can nothing be done to save from disaster
….The resolute men of that brave little band ?
Ah ! who is this coming up , faster and faster,
….Erect in the saddle, his sword in his hand ?

List, list to the cheer that rings high through the forest,
….And list to the tidings that run down the line :
“It is Brock who has come when our need is the sorest !
….At the flash of his sword vict’ry ever will shine.”

With a shout on his lip he leaps into the battle,
….Unheedful of dangers, unconscious of fears,
And his voice rings aloud o’er the musketry’s rattle :
….“Push on to the front the brave York Volunteers !”

He pauses, he staggers, his life blood is flowing !
….Pale, pale grow his features—he’s gasping for breath !
And seething with fury his soldiers are throwing
….Themselves on the foemen, avenging his death.

They chase the invaders, they hurl them before them,
….They sweep o’er the field with victorious tread,
Then they lower the flag that sadly droops o’er them,
….And wrap it with reverence over the dead.

Sad, sad are the souls of the men gathered round him—
….Not triumph but sorrow possesses each breast—
For bravest and noblest of men had they found him.
….He led them to glory, but now he’s at rest.

He’s at rest, but forever the fame of his story
….Will shine on our annals untainted by time,
And ever will glitter the star of his glory,
….Who fell at his post in his bright golden prime.


Source: Charles Edwin Jakeway. The Lion and the Lilies: A Tale of the Conquest and Other Poems. Toronto: William Briggs, 1897

The death notice of Charles Edwin Jakeway published in the Barrie Examiner March 8, 1906 from Find a Grave


jakeway

 

Read about the Battle of Queenston Heights

Battle of Queenston Heights, October 13, 1812 by Crowquill

crowquill
Brock’s Monument from the entrance to the Landscape Of Nations: Six Nations and Native Allies Commemorative Memorial.
Statues of Native Leaders John Norton (Teyoninhokarawen) and John Brant (Dekarihokenh)
Photo by Andrew Porteus, 2019

Now listen U. E. Loyalists
….The high immortal praise
Won here upon this sacred Mount
….In old paternal days.

For native land our fathers bled ;
….For right and glory’s crown ;
And double vengeance winged their swords
….For wrongs their blood had known.

Fierce Mars came on at first with foes ;
….And gave our Chief to death ;
Then changing sides their ranks he smote,
….And stamped his feet beneath.

’The first year’s war had passed far on :
….Success our arms sustained :
Our leader, during summer months,
….Applause from all had gained.

With skill intuitive he formed
….A various force and good,
Of soldiers trained, militia new,
….And children of the wood.

With these he pressed his rapid way
….To far Detroit’s stronghold ;
And snatched it from our neighbour’s grasp
….With knightly hand and bold.

But now Americans are strong
….On broad Lake Erie’s wave ;
They hope to wrest the honours back ;
….And more than credit save.

The storm-cloud gathers day by day
….Along our river’s course :
It threatens soon to burst in rage
….And test our manhood’s force.

Now bright October paints the woods
….With flame of leafy dyes ;
But Autumn gales have not as yet
….Assailed the resting skies.

Late peach and apple fruits still cling
….Among the foliage sere─
They help to show the country’s worth ;
….And make its homes more dear.

Deciduous woods on Queenston’s crest
….Show now their colours bright ;
While cedar clumps adorn the slope,
….Half-grown and fair to sight.

The juniper and cedar join
….In dense and sombre mass
To shade the vast and swirling stream
….Which here sweeps through the pass.

The river here, its strangling way,
….Through cloven mountains takes ;
Nor can, at once, its step restrain,
….When new its bonds its breaks.

A dread will come to inland youth
….When first he sees that tide,
As there it rolls in volume huge,
….Rock-gored on either side.

Alarming too mount up those crags
….Precipitous, and high :
They too have fear-inspiring look
….For young home-loving eye.

Along the mountain’s steepy base
….The Queenston Hamlet sleeps :
And pleasant homes, though not of wealth,
….Its narrow limit keeps.

And westward spreads a fair rich land ;
….A land by bright suns blessed :
This land from no weak-handed men
….The foe come here to wrest.

October now its Thirteenth day
….Brings in with challenge high :
The foe by night have crossed our lines :
….Our men must fight or fly.

With dawn of light the cannon’s voice
….Calls forth to combat stern :
The blood of all runs fast and high
….And fiercest passions burn.

Excitement boils through both the Hosts :
….No soul has calm or rest :
Not all who see the rising Sun
….Will see him in the west.

Sir Isaac startles in his sleep
….Within Fort George’s walls :
He guesses what has now transpired ;
….That gravest peril calls.

His aids and he to saddle spring :
….Tow’rd Queenston spur their way :
Their rapid steeds will reach the hill,
….—Ere yet ’tis fully day.

But first before he leaves the Fort
….Brief charge─as suited need─
He gives to eager waiting men,
….To follow on with speed.

Two Companies of Forty-First
….With fiery haste fall in :
Militia too and Indian force
….Their equal march begin,

Americans have crossed the stream
….In strong well-armed array :
They now are on the mountain top ;
….And but await the day.

Our two gun battery on the bank
….Poured down its iron hail
When morning showed still coming foes :
….E’en then with some avail.

It struck mid-stream some labouring boats
….Low-pressed, with soldiers full ;
And plunged their men to bubbling deaths
….In deeps unfathomable.

The fight began upon the mount
….While shadowy night prevailed :
Americans with five-fold force
….Our battery there assailed.

Two Companies of Forty-Ninth,
….With help which near they found,
Militia men and Indian scouts,
….Awhile had kept their ground.

But step by step, by numbers forced
….They had their guns to yield :
Yet battling fierce and struggling hard
….They slowly left the field.

They now are pressed quite down the slope :
….In flight all hope is placed :
That moment Brock and staff come up
….In swift and breathless haste.

Straight up the rapid steep they turn ;
….Nor stop─though most fall dead :
They think not now of dear sweet life
….When by loved General led.

They almost gain disputed line ;
….Ten paces still they want ;
But, ah !  those hoped-for paces ten
….The fates will never grant !

Our mighty Chief here ends his course,─
….He falls !  Stand back !  Give light !
He breathes !  What word was that ?  He’s dead !
….Gone forth to death’s dark night.

That spirit brave, that brightest soul,
….That lived for soldier’s fame ;
That had on distant Europe’s fields
….Won earth-pervading name,

Now reaches here its last sea verge ;
….Its record now is done ;
That masterful and restless soul
….Its fated course has run.

His comrades bear him down the hill
….With under-clasping arms :
And deeply tender anguished love
….Each hero’s great soul warms.

Now while he thus is borne away
….Macdonald steps to front ;
Nor cares he now to live or die,
….As is a brave friend’s wont.

But he too falls in briefest space :
….The force again recedes.
Macdonald falls as fell his chief :
….He too for glory bleeds.

Now men from old Fort George are come
….And Sheaffe is in command ;
But he will not renew the fight
….Till better mode is planned.

Now silence reigns o’er all the scene ;
….Save that, at intervals,
The Indian’s deadly rifle crack,
….Tells where the invader falls.

Our foes had won the upper guns,
….As has before been shown,
And so the battery on the bank
….Was by their shot o’erthrown.

The battery thus upon the bank
….In silence now is lost :
Its silence tells how much we miss
….Our well-placed mountain post.

One gun away at Froman’s Point
….Still sweeps the channelled stream ;
Nor stops till victory crowns our arms,
….’Neath day’s far westering beam.

This single gun seemed ruling Fate :
….The stream could not be crossed :
The foe could not his succours bring ;
….Nor fly when fight was lost.

Good Sheaffe now leaves the northern slope,
….His other course has planned ;
The assault must be on level plain,
….Or e’en from higher land.

The mount still higher climbs to south
….With smooth and easy grade
Above the ground by foes possessed :
….The fight must there be made.

And with this view he leads his force
….Some miles away to west ;
And thus by easy secret paths,
….Ascends the mountain’s crest

While this proceeds till past mid-day
….The foe are kept in fear ;
Young Brant and fifty Mohawk braves
….Infest the thickets near.

And once this clan of fiercest souls
….Burst forth from green-wood nigh
Upon the foe’s unsheltered lines,
….With wild Plutonian cry.

With frightful yells and arms upraised
….They startling fear produced :
Their hatchets cleaved a score of skulls :
….A score of hearts they sluiced.

Now, Winfield Scott, use well thy nerve ;
….This is no sportive task ;
If thou, thyself, shalt see the night,
….’Tis much of Fates to ask.

And well thou prov’st thy val’rous soul ;
….Thy lines stand firm and fixed ;
Which but for thee and words of thine
….Had with red earth been mixed.

But soon the cloud of Indian braves,
….The wood absorbs again ;
Yet ever more that vengeful force
….Hangs round the wooded plain.

And other help these good friends give,
….They keep the highway clear,
And word is so to Chippewa sent
….—Of battle waging here.

The mid-day hour is now long past ;
….Converging troops are met─
Calm Sheaffe is on the table land
….At place himself had set.

From far Fort George he has his men ;
….Of Forty-Ninth those few,
Who first had made that struggle fierce
….To do what none could do.

From Chippewa now a regular force
….Pour in with soldiers’ zeal
And dauntless good militia troops,
….Whose hearts these hard fates feel.

Brant’s band had been all day at hand ;
….A subtle deadly foe :
And Norton now brings other bands
….In paints of gaudy show.

Now Sheaffe his various force arrayed ;
….First Red Coats take their place :
It mikes the blood run fire to see
….Their gallant martial grace.

These troops have fought o’er half the world :
….No men more proud than they ;
They march with readiest step to death,
….As if to scenic play.

Next Loyalists take place abreast,
….Inornate is their host ;
No handsome uniform they wear ;
….Nor measured step they boast.

Yet they will travel step for step
….All ground the veterans gain ;
And arms of theirs in that red fight
….Will take e’en redder stain.

They would not live as coward knaves
….On soil which once was theirs ;
But while they live their hands shall do
….What freest freeman dares.

They come from scattered dear loved homes
….To take this soldier’s post ;
And each one here his life devotes,
….Nor thinks too much the cost.

And feathered Indians come long side ;
….A semi-savage clan,
They come to vindicate their claim
….To common fame of man.

Their soul is filled with grateful sense,
….For words kind Brock had said
And they will now avenge his shade,
….Or they lie stark and dead.

Chiefs Brant and Norton lead their tribes
….High clamouring for their prey :
And scarce the chiefs have rule enough
….Their forward course to stay.

The final deadly strife begins,─
….Two field guns’ horses fly
Forth on the plain at fullest speed
….The ranks of foes to try.

Their shot makes dangerous strain at least ;
….But Scott steps forth once more,
And waves his hat upon his sword─
….His words his troops restore.

For loud he calls with chieftain’s voice,
….Reminds of country’s fame ;
That here they must by life or death,
….Sustain her splendid name.

The orders now pass on our lines ;
….“ Avenge the General slain ;
Three British cheers ; one musket round ;
….The rest the steel must gain.”

And thrice rang out the wild hurra,─
….Mens’ roar in fighting mood ;
It rolled for miles far o’er the land :
….The cry of blood for blood.

Next flashed a blaze from all our front─
….Then onward moves the mass ;
They step to time with sounding tread,─
….Earth trembles as they pass.

The Red Coats gay with levelled steel
….Move on with martial pace ;
And stern militia, nerved as high,
….Their equal ground do trace.

The Indian braves need not the spur,
….But come with whoop and yell ;
That they have not brave grateful hearts
….No tongue of truth shall tell.

Scott’s men cannot this onset meet─
….They come not here for right ;
They break, re-form, and break again :
….Then rush in headlong flight.

And fierce and furious was that charge─
….A tempest’s thundrous rain ;
It rolled the foe like stubble weak
….Along the darkling plain.

Nor stopped it in its angry sweep
….Till all the hill was crossed ;
And it had pushed o’er eastern rocks
….The panic stricken host.

At river side where woods are thick
….A thousand men now hide ;
One half of these had made good fight,─
….The rest no fight had tried.

And but for Sheaffe’s humanity,
….Which prompt our Indians checked,
A three-fold bloody tragedy
….The invading force had wrecked.

Nine hundred men lay down their arms─
….’Twere vain so placed to fight ;
And grieved and sad they bend to Fate,
….Subdued by Fortune’s blight.

Twelve hundred men on either side
….Upon this field had stood ;
And foes had fallen full three to one,
….Nor yet their stand made good.

Our land is free─has proved its power,─
….It holds its rightful own ;
Our starting point this battle is :
….We here have manhood shown.

Brave, noble Sheaffe, bright crown is thine :
….Thy valorous sage delay
Brought victory back to grace our Flag
….When lost had seemed the day.

And name of Brock shall never die
….While Queenston looks afar ;
’Twill be in all the onward times
….Our upward guiding star.

Fate gave him two and forty years
….To gain the fame be loved ;
And ever in that briefer space
….As demigod he moved.

His fall refined each manly soul
….Of all his mixed command ;
And still he lives in patriot hearts,
….The genius of our land.

In dying he his Flag bore on─
….Straight on, where glory bade ;
It faltered not while in his hands,
….Nor on it fell a shade.

The Spartan King came not from out
….The famous fatal straits ;
But Greeks from him learned how to die :
….What fame on heroes waits.

Achilles died in prime of youth,
….The chief of Homer’s song ;
He rather would for glory die.
….Than unknown life prolong.

Descendants of the Refugees !
….Think how this field was red !
Think how our fathers fighting hard
….Found here a gory bed !

If ye shall basely yield your claim
….To your great heritage,
How vile and weak will be the name
….Ye leave to future age !

The patriot spirits in their graves
….Who died for country’s cause
Would scorn a kindred with such souls,
….Who know not glory’s laws.

Remember U. E. Loyalists
….The glory of this hill !
How raged your fathers ’gainst the foe !
….How stern their patriot will !

 

Ottawa.                       Crowquill.


Source: The Dominion Illustrated Magazine, vol. IV, No. 89, March 15, 1890

Crowquill is a pseudonym used by poet Rev. Archibald Lampman, Senior, (1822-1897) father of renowned poet Archibald Lampman [Junior]. Lampman senior was an Anglican Minister and a son of United Empire Loyalists who moved from New Jersey after the American Revolution

Many thanks to Arden Phair for bringing this poem to my attention.


 

 

Mary Secord: A Canadian Ballad of 1813 by Fidelis

[Curator’s note: The Mary Secord referred to in this poem is actually Laura Secord. Fidelis was the pen name of Agnes Maule Machar. A later version of this poem can be found here.]

The sweet June moonlight softly fell
    On meadow, wood, and stream
Where, 'neath the crags of Queenston Heights,
    The green waves darkly gleam.

Alone the whip-poor-will’s sad cry
    Blent with the murmuring pines,
Save where the sentry paced his rounds
    Along the Yankee lines.

But, in one lowly cottage home,
    Were sorrow and dismay ;—
Two troubled watchers might not sleep
    For tidings heard that day.

Brave James Secord—no craven heart,
    Beat in that crippled frame
That bore the scars of 'Queenston Heights'—
    —Back to his cabin came.

With tidings of a secret plan
    Fitzgibbon to surprise,
As, with his handful of brave men,
    At Beaver Dam he lies ;—

For Boerstler, with seven hundred men,
    And guns, and warlike store,
Will steal upon our outpost there
    Guarded by scarce two-score !

‘Then, crushed at once, as it must be,
    Our gallant little band !
The foe will press to force the heights
    And sweep the conquered land !

‘Then noble Brock had died in vain !
    —If but Fitzgibbon knew !—
But the poor cripple’s foot is stayed,
    Though brave his heart and true.

Then Mary, bending o’er her babes,
    Looked up, and smiled through tears ; —
‘These are not times for brave men’s wives
    To yield to women's fears !

‘You cannot go to warn our men,—
    They would not let you through ;
But if they'll let a woman pass,
    This errand I will do.’

She soothed away his anxious fears,—
    She knew the forest way ;—
She put her trust in Him who hears
    His children when they pray.

Soon as the rosy flush of dawn
    Glowed through the purple air,
She rose to household tasks, and kissed
    Her babes, with whispered prayer.

Then to her faithful cow she went ;
    —The sentry at the lines
Forgot to watch, as both were lost
    Among the sheltering pines.

The rising sun’s first golden rays
    Glanced through the forest aisles
And lighted up its sombre depths
    With changeful golden smiles.

The fragrant odour of the pines,—
    The birds' fresh carols sweet—
Breathed courage to the trembling heart
    And strength to faltering feet.

And on she pressed, with steadfast tread,
    Her solitary way,
Through tangled brake, and sodden marsh,
    Through all the sultry day ;—

Though for the morning songs of birds,
    She heard the wolf’s hoarse cry,
And saw the rattle-snake glide forth,
    From ferny covert nigh.


She stopped not short for running stream
    —The way found by the will,—
Nor for the pleading voice of friends
    At fair St. David’s Mill.

The British sentry heard her tale
    And cheered her on her way,
But bade her ‘ware the Indian scouts
    That in the covert lay.

Anon,— as cracked a rotten bough,
    Beneath her wary tread,
She heard them shouting through the gloom—
    She heard their war-whoop dread.

But quickly, to the questioning chief,
    She told her errand brave,—
How she had come a weary way
    Fitzgibbon’s men to save !

The red-skin heard, and kindly looked
    Upon the pale-faced 'squaw ;'—
Her faithful courage touched his heart,
    Her weary look he saw.

‘Me go with you’ —was all he said,—
    His warriors waved away, —
He led her safe to Beaver Dam,
    Where brave Fitzgibbon lay.

With throbbing heart her tale she told ;
    Full well Fitzgibbon knew
How great the threatened danger was,
    If such a tale were true !

Then to De Haven swift he sent
    To call him to his side,—
And all the moon-lit summer night,
    Swords clash and troopers ride,—

While Mary, in a farm-house near,
    In dreamless slumber lay,
And woke to find her gallant friends
    Had fought and gained the day !


If e’er Canadian courage fail,
    Or loyalty grow cold,
Or nerveless grow Canadian hearts,
    Then be the story told,—

How woman's will and woman's wit
    Then played its noblest part,
—How British valour saved the land,
    And woman’s dauntless heart !



Source: G. Mercer Adam (ed.) Rose-Belford’s Canadian Monthly and National Review, vol 4, Jan-June 1880. Toronto: Rose-Belford Publishing Co., 1880

Click here to see a later version of this poem, published in 1902, under the title Laura Secord and using Fidelis’ real name, Agnes Maule Machar.

Read about the life of Machar

Read about the Battle of Beaverdams

Read more poems about the War of 1812

The Battle of Beaverdams by J. P. Merritt

Our neighbours in a score of states,
   Being more or less united,
Determined to come over here,
    Not especially invited.

Having the job made up some how
     With Napoleon the Great,
That he should make the Russian bow
     While they of Canada would make a state.

Our ancestors a boon secured—
     The freedom of each station ;
From trials that they then endured
     Was born our present nation.

Year about eighteen twelve ;
     Forget them shall we never ;
In memory's pages they still shall live
     Till death our lives shall sever.

In all those years, '13, the most
     Of fighting here was done,
And in '13, June 24th,
     The grandest victory won.

April's days were nearly o'er
     When Toronto was laid low ;
May had counted one month more
     When in Niagara was the foe.

The militia were disbanded —
     No more fighting to be done —
O'er every farmer's mantlepiece
     A musket up was hung.

When the leafy month of June,
     When foliage clothed the beech,
The folly of invasions,
     Indians and militia teach.

Two Indian braves by Boerstler slain,
     Made their station at the Ten,
Determined to fill up new graves
     With twice as many men.

The farmer viewed his meadow land,
     Now ready for the scythe ;
"To-morrow I this grass will cut,
     If tomorrow I'm alive."

Scarce finished was his ramble,
     Walking slowly to his meal,
He hears the note of warlike spoil
     By the Indian in his zeal.

To-day he knew he'd other work ;
     Scarce touched his morning meal,
But, taking down his trusty gun,
     He towards the fore did steal.

The Beechwoods spread with ample shade
     Cast over all a sombre hue.
Whose sturdy trunks assist to aid
     To keep our men from view.

Those who lived near arrived the first
     The foe to hold at bay
Until were gathered to the field
     Those who further lived away.

Soon cannon from the mountain brow
     Boom on the calm, still air,
And to engage in battle
     Militia far and near repair.

The regulars had heard alarms
     The horseman were on time
To take the leader's sword and arms
     And guard them to our line.

A victory small, and won like this
     By the farmers of the Ten,
Had more effect to keep the peace
     Than an army of fighting men.

But, as the seasons come and go,
     Never that long day of June
Shall be blotted from our memory,
     Our harvest work as soon.

Source: Thorold Post, June 8, 1894, p. 6

Read about the Battle of Beaverdams

Read more poems about the War of 1812 in Niagara

Read about J.P. Merritt

The 74th Anniversary of the Battle of Lundy’s Lane by S.A.C. (Sarah Anne Curzon?)

S.A.C.
Sculpture of General George Drummond in Drummond Hill Cemetery, 1995
Image courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library.

Fought 25th July, 1814

Upon this hill where now we gently tread,
’Mid graves and stones—memorials of the dead,
Where greenest turf and sweetest flowerets smile,
And whispering leaves to sacred thoughts beguile—
Where gathering free, with none to break our peace,
From meaner thoughts we claim a short surcease.
We pause, and list to awful memories far
When from this height boomed forth the roar of war.
Soft contrast this to that fierce day and night,
When surge of battle hither rolled in might ;
When shot and shell ploughed all the trampled ground,
And wounded, dead, and dying dropped around.
Pharsalia, not upon thy dreadful plain
Lay in more frequent heaps the gory slain !
But, O proud contrast ! there Ambition fought,
And personal ends the conquering Cæsar sought ;
But here, ’twas Patriotism fired the fight,
And Drummond struck to save our dearest right.—
Drummond, whose name still lives in proud Quebec,
Shall saved Niagara’s foot be on thy neck ?
Can Lundy’s Lane untrue to Drummond live,
Or grudge thy memory all she had to give ?—
Thy right, O Canada, thy Drummond sought,
And from high justice all his valour caught.
He traversed not another’s right To Be,
But sternly guarded thy sweet liberty.
What asks the patriot more? He knows but this—
His country and her welfare very his.
Her honour his, her greatness all his care ;
Quick to defend, her woes his willing share ;
Her name his pride, her future but his own ;
Each word and deed, seed for her harvest sown.
What asks the patriot more? For her to live,
Or gladly for her life his own to give.
Such were thy sons, O Canada, that fought for thee,
Sprung from the boundless West, or utmost sea.
Such are thy sons to-day—the same their sires—
Or French or British quick with loyal fires.
Here on this holy hill their bodies lie
As thick as stars that stud the winter sky.
Here on this hill baptized indeed with fire,
As from an altar may their flames aspire.
O Canada ! Thou of the seven-fold bond ;
Let evermore such sons in thee be found ;
Let evermore thy sons thy guardians be,
High-souled and pure, CONTENT IF THOU BE FREE.

S.A.C.
21st July, 1889        


Source: The Dominion Illustrated, vol. III, No. 59, August 17, 1889

The poem was signed S.A.C. S.A.C. was likely  Sarah Anne Curzon

Read other poems about the War of 1812 in Niagara