Canada, My Land Part 2

O soil Canadian, cherished earth, The brave, the n.o.ble, peopled thee; They left the country of their birth, And sought a land of liberty.

It was from glorious France they came: They were the pick of warriors, they; The shining l.u.s.tre of their fame Is kept untarnished till to-day.

How beautiful thy fields appear!

How much thou hast to give content!

All hail, ye mountains that uprear Your lordly heights magnificent!

All hail, St. Lawrence' n.o.ble tide!

Hail, land by Nature richly deckt!

Thy children's hearts should throb with pride, Thy sons should walk with head erect.

Still honor the protecting hand Of Albion, friend of the opprest; And harbor no malicious band Of traitors nourished in thy breast.

Yield never in the storm, be brave; Thine only masters are thy laws; Thou wast not made to be a slave; Fear not, thy rights are Britain's cause.

If that belov'd, protecting hand Should ever fail thee, undismay'd Stand by thyself, alone, my land, Rejecting, scorning foreign aid.

From glorious France thy founders came; They were the pick of warriors, they: The shining l.u.s.tre of their fame Unsullied shall be kept for aye.

MY OWN CANADIAN GIRL.

The demoiselles of sunny France Have gaiety and grace; Britannia's maids a tender glance, A sweet and gentle face; Columbia's virgins bring to knee Full many a duke and earl; But there is none can equal thee, My own Canadian girl.

Thy hair is finer than the floss That tufts the ears of corn; Its tresses have a silken gloss, A glory like the morn; I prize the rich, luxuriant ma.s.s, And each endearing curl A special grace and beauty has, My own Canadian girl.

Thy brow is like the silver moon That sails in summer skies, The mirror of a mind immune From care, serene and wise, Thy nose is sculptured ivory; Thine ears are lobes of pearl; Thy lips are corals from the sea, My own Canadian girl.

Thine eyes are limpid pools of light, The windows of thy soul; The stars are not so clear and bright That shine around the pole.

The crimson banners of thy cheeks To sun and wind unfurl; Thy tongue makes music when it speaks, My own Canadian girl.

G.o.d keep thee fair and bright and good As in thy morning hour, And make thy gracious womanhood A still unfolding flow'r.

And stay thy thoughts from trifles vain, Thy feet from folly's whirl, And guard thy life from every stain, My own Canadian girl!

THE ST. LAWRENCE.

Though like Ulysses, fam'd of old, I travell'd, or the wandering Jew, No n.o.bler sight could I behold Than one which daily meets my view, This mighty stream, my country's pride, St. Lawrence' broad, majestic tide.

By Babylonia's waters, 'mong Unwonted scenes, disconsolate, Their harps upon the willows hung, The Jewish exiles weeping sate, Recall'd the river of their land, And yearn'd to tread its winding strand.

When stern Elisha bade him lave Seven times in Jordan and be clean, His Syrian upland's flashing wave Seem'd better to the Damascene.

"Albana, Pharpar far excel,"

He said, "the streams of Israel."

In India Ganges was rever'd, In Egypt worshipp'd was the Nile, To Romans Tiber was endear'd From Apennine to Sacred Isle; And Rhine and Danube, Thames and Rhone A people's votive love have known.

And we to this imposing flood A cordial homage needs must pay, Who in the solemn night have stood Upon its banks, and day by day Been fill'd with gladness to behold Its floor of silver flush'd with gold.

It brings the nations to our marts, It bears our commerce to the sea, Has virtue, too, to cleanse our hearts, And make our spirits strong and free; It flows, our struggling lives to bless, With volume, grace and cheerfulness.

ST. LAWRENCE AND THE COMING SHIPS.

I cannot loiter on my way, The ice is drifting through Belle Isle, And far to seaward by Cape Ray Broad leagues of open water smile.

Unheeded now, the inland barge Creeps heavily, the fisher dips His meshes in my br.i.m.m.i.n.g marge; I go to meet the coming ships.

They steam from Thames by Dover Strait, They cleave the Bristol Channel's tide, They pa.s.s the Mersey's thronging gate, And issue from the crowded Clyde.

Out past the homing craft they sheer, The Irish coastline by them slips; Ere many days they will be here: I go to meet the coming ships.

Full-fraught with wealth of merchandise, They plough the main with furrows deep; Upon the waves they sink and rise, But onward, onward ever keep.

And some a viewless message send, Whose airy flight their speed outstrips; And all their yearnings. .h.i.ther tend: I go to meet the coming ships.

I tarry not by fortress old, Nor pause by any pleasant sh.o.r.e, But hasten, eager to behold Those brave leviathans once more, To welcome them with parted banks, And kiss their prows with loving lips, And soothingly caress their flanks; I go to meet the coming ships.

THE QUEBEC EXODUS.

Why should we leave the soil our fathers cleared, And lifelong tilled with patient, loving hands?

Why should we leave the homes our fathers reared, And seek strange dwellings in unhallowed lands?

Why should we leave the shrines where they revered Their guardian G.o.d, and break the golden bands That bind us to the ashes of our sires, Their haunts, their hearthstones and their altar-fires?

Is it that now no longer from our doors The forest stretches with its gloom profound?

That they who first set foot upon these sh.o.r.es Increase and multiply and hedge us round, Co-heritors of the exhaustless stores Of natural wealth that more and more abound?-- Because of brethren of a differing speech, From whom we learn, and whom perhaps we teach?

It was not thus our conquering race arose; It was not thus our copious language grew: The Saxon mingled with his Celtic foes, The Norman brought to both a spirit new.

Not thus we read th' heroic tale of those Who built the younger Britains o'er the blue: 'Twas here and there a handful in the earth, Prevailing, not by numbers, but by worth.

HEAT.

The fickle sun that had the earth caress'd And quickened all her amorous desire, And brought fresh roses to adorn her breast, Now spurned her in the madness of his ire; A haze of heat half hid the mountain's crest; The very river seemed of liquid fire; The air was flame, the town a stifling pale, And all the land was like a Hinnom's Vale.

I thought of Hagar and what she endured, Faint in the desert, driv'n from Sara's sight; Of angry Jonah underneath his gourd, Grown in a night and withered in a night; Of the sun-stricken lad Elisha cured For the good, hospitable Shunammite; And of the fiery furnace made to glow For Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego.

I called to mind Boccaccio's tale of her Left on a sun-scorched roof, and like to die; And I beheld the Ancient Mariner Becalmed beneath his hot and copper sky; And heard a long-forgotten traveller Speak from a page which made my childhood sigh, And tell of horrid climes by G.o.d accurst, And men and horses perishing of thirst.

And to myself I said, Is this the land Where freezing cold claims sometimes half the year?

Is this the region where the streams are spanned With floors of azure crystal, hard and clear, And all the snow-enveloped mountains stand Like h.o.a.ry chiefs, majestic and austere?

Was't here we saw so late King Winter stern?

And will he shortly here again return?