Part 14

O, the cedar and the spruce line each dark Canadian river; But the thirsty date is here, where the sultry sunbeams quiver; And the mocking mirage spreads its view, afar on either hand; But strong we bend the sturdy oar, towards the Southern land!

O, we’ve tracked the Rapids up, and o’er many a portage crossing; And it’s often such we’ve seen, though so loud the waves are tossing! Then, it’s homeward when the run is o’er! o’er stream, and ocean deep-- To bring the memory of the Nile, where the maple shadows sleep!

And it yet may come to pass, that the hearts and hands so ready May be sought again to help, when some poise is off the steady! And the Maple and the Pine be matched, with British Oak the while, As once beneath Egyptian suns, the Canadians on the Nile! _Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up! It’s easy shooting homeward, when we’re at the top!_

_William Wye Smith._

ANDERSON

CXCI

THE DEATH OF WOLFE

‘On with the charge!’ he cries, and waves his sword;-- One rolling cheer five thousand voices swell;-- The levelled guns pour forth their leaden shower, While thund’ring cannons’ roar half drowns the Huron yell.

‘On with the charge!’ with shout and cheer they come;-- No laggard there upon that field of fame. The lurid plain gleams like a seething hell, And every rock and tree send forth their bolts of flame.

On! on! they sweep. Uprise the waiting ranks-- Still as the grave--unmoved as granite wall;-- The foe before--the dizzy crags behind-- They fight, the day to win, or like true warriors fall.

Forward they sternly move, then halt to wait That raging sea of human life now near;-- ‘Fire!’ rings from right to left,--each musket rings, As if a thunder-peal had struck the startled ear.

Again, and yet again that volley flies,-- With deadly aim the grapeshot sweeps the field;-- All levelled for the charge, the bayonets gleam, And brawny arms a thousand claymores fiercely wield.

And down the line swells high the British cheer, That on a future day woke Minden’s plain, And the loud slogan that fair Scotland’s foes Have often heard with dread, and oft shall hear again.

And the shrill pipe its coronach that wailed On dark Culloden moor o’er trampled dead, Now sounds the ‘Onset’ that each clansman knows, Still leads the foremost rank, where noblest blood is shed.

And on that day no nobler stained the sod, Than his, who for his country life laid down; Who, for a mighty Empire battled there, And strove from rival’s brow to wrest the laurel crown.

Twice struck,--he recks not, but still heads the charge, But, ah! fate guides the marksman’s fatal ball:-- With bleeding breast, he claims a comrade’s aid,-- ‘We win,--let not my soldiers see their Leader fall.’

Full well he feels life’s tide is ebbing fast,-- When hark! ‘They run; see how they run!’ they cry. ‘Who run?’ ‘The foe.’ His eyes flash forth one gleam, Then murm’ring low he sighs, ‘Praise God, in peace I die.’

Far rolls the battle’s din, and leaves its dead, As when a cyclone thro’ the forest cleaves;-- And the dread claymore heaps the path with slain, As strews the biting cold the earth with autumn leaves.

The Fleur de Lys lies trodden on the ground,-- The slain Montcalm rests in his warrior grave,-- ‘All’s well’ resounds from tower and battlement, And England’s banners proudly o’er the ramparts wave.

Slowly the mighty warships sail away, To tell their country of an empire won; But, ah! they bear the death-roll of the slain, And all that mortal is of Britain’s noblest son.

With bowèd head they lay their hero down, And pomp and pageant crown the deathless brave;-- Loud salvoes sing the soldier’s lullaby, And weeping millions bathe with tears his honoured grave.

Then bright the bonfires blaze on Albion’s hills,-- And rends the very sky a people’s joy;-- And even when grief broods o’er the vacant chair, The mother’s heart still nobly gives her gallant boy.

And while broad England gleams with glorious light, And merry peals from every belfry ring;-- One little village lies all dark and still, No fires are lighted there--no battle songs they sing.

There in her lonely cot, in widow’s weeds, A mother mourns--the silent tear-drops fall;-- She too had given to swell proud England’s fame, But, ah! she gave the widow’s mite--she gave her all!

_Duncan Anderson._

CURZON

CXCII

THE LOYALISTS

O ye, who with your blood and sweat Watered the furrows of this land,-- See where upon a nation’s brow, In honour’s front, ye proudly stand

Who for her pride abased your own, And gladly on her altar laid All bounty of the outer world, All memories that your glory made.

And to her service bowed your strength, Took labour for your shield and crest; See where upon a nation’s brow, Her diadem ye proudly rest!

_Sarah Anne Curzon._

RAND

CXCIII

THE WHITETHROAT

Shy bird of the silver arrows of song, That cleave our Northern air so clear, Thy notes prolong, prolong, I listen, I hear-- ‘I love--dear--Canada, Canada, Canada!’

O plumes of the pointed dusky fir, Screen of a swelling patriot heart, The copse is all astir And echoes thy part!...

Now willowy reeds tune their silver flutes As the noise of the day dies down; And silence strings her lutes, The Whitethroat to crown....

O bird of the silver arrows of song, Shy poet of Canada dear, Thy notes prolong, prolong, We listen, we hear-- ‘I--love--dear--Canada, Canada, Canada!’

_Theodore Harding Rand._

CHRISTIE

CXCIV

WELCOME HOME

(_July 23, 1885_)

War-worn, sun-scorched, stained with the dust of toil And battle-scarred they come--victorious! Exultingly we greet them--cleave the sky With cheers, and fling our banners to the winds; We raise triumphant songs, and strew their path To do them homage--bid them ‘Welcome Home!’

We laid our country’s honour in their hands And sent them forth undoubting. Said farewell With hearts too proud, too jealous of their fame, To own our pain. To-day glad tears may flow. To-day they come again, and bring their gift-- Of all earth’s gifts most precious--trust redeemed. We stretch our hands, we lift a joyful cry, Words of all words the sweetest--‘Welcome Home!’

O brave true hearts! O steadfast loyal hearts! They come, and lay their trophies at our feet; They show us work accomplished, hardships borne, Courageous deeds, and patience under pain, Their country’s name upheld and glorified, And Peace, dear purchased by their blood and toil. What guerdon have we for such service done? Our thanks, our pride, our praises, and our prayers; Our country’s smile, and her most just rewards; The victor’s laurel laid upon their brows And all the love that speaks in ‘Welcome Home!’

Bays for the heroes: for the martyrs, palms. To those who come not, who ‘though dead yet speak’ A lesson to be guarded in our souls While the land lives for whose dear sake they died-- Whose lives thrice sacred are the price of Peace, Whose memory, thrice belovèd thrice revered, Shall be their country’s heritage, to hold Eternal pattern to her living sons-- What dare we bring? They, dying, have won all. A drooping flag, a flower upon their graves, Are all the tribute left. Already theirs A Nation’s safety, gratitude and tears, Imperishable honour, endless rest.

And ye, O stricken hearted! to whom earth Is dark, though Peace is smiling, whom no pride Can soothe, no triumph-pæan can console-- Ye surely will not fail them--will not shrink To perfect now your sacrifice of love? ’Tis yours to stifle sobs and check your tears, Lest echo of your grief should reach and break Their hard-won joy in Heaven, where God Himself Has met and crowned them, and has said ‘Well done!’

_Annie Rothwell Christie._

PHILLIPPS-WOLLEY

CXCV

THEIR TESTAMENT

Why is it that ye grieve, O, weak in faith, Who turn toward High Heaven upbraiding eyes? Think ye that God will count your children’s death Vain sacrifice?

Half-mast your flags? Nay, fly them at the head! We reap the harvest where we sowed the corn; See, from the red graves of your gallant dead, An Empire born!

Do ye not know ye cannot cure a flaw Unless the steel runs molten-red again: That men’s mere words could not together draw Those who were twain?

Do you not see the Anglo-Saxon breed Grew less than kin, on every continent; That brothers had forgotten, in their greed, What ‘brother’ meant?

Do ye not hear from all the humming wires Which bind the mother to each colony, How He works surely for our best desires To weld the free

With blood of freemen into one Grand Whole, To open all the gates of all the Earth? Do ye not see your Greater Britain’s soul Has come to birth?

Do ye not hear above the sighs--the song From all those outland hearts, which peace kept dumb:-- ‘There is no fight too fierce, no trail too long, When Love cries ‘Come!’’

Can ye beat steel from iron in the sun, Or crown Earth’s master on a bloodless field? As Abram offered to his God his son, Our best _we_ yield.

And God gives answer. In the battle smoke-- Tried in war’s crucible, washed white in tears, The Saxon heart of Greater Britain woke, One for all years.

Lift up your eyes! Your glory is revealed! See, through war’s clouds, the rising of your Sun! Hear ye God’s voice! _Their testament is sealed And ye be one!_

_Clive Phillipps-Wolley._

ROBERTS

CXCVI

CANADA

O Child of Nations, giant-limbed, Who stand’st among the nations now Unheeded, unadored, unhymned, With unanointed brow,--

How long the ignoble sloth, how long The trust in greatness not thine own? Surely the lion’s brood is strong To front the world alone!

How long the indolence, ere thou dare Achieve thy destiny, seize thy fame-- Ere our proud eyes behold thee bear A nation’s franchise, nation’s name?

The Saxon force, the Celtic fire, These are thy Manhood’s heritage! Why rest with babes and slaves? Seek higher The place of race and age.

I see to every wind unfurled The flag that bears the Maple-Wreath; Thy swift keels furrow round the world Its blood-red folds beneath;

Thy swift keels cleave the furthest seas; Thy white sails swell with alien gales; To stream on each remotest breeze The black smoke of thy pipes exhales.

O Falterer, let thy past convince Thy future,--all the growth, the gain, The fame since Cartier knew thee, since Thy shores beheld Champlain!

Montcalm and Wolfe! Wolfe and Montcalm! Quebec, thy storied citadel Attest in burning song and psalm How here thy heroes fell!

O Thou that bor’st the battle’s brunt At Queenston and at Lundy’s Lane,-- On whose scant ranks but iron front The battle broke in vain!--

Whose was the danger, whose the day, From whose triumphant throats the cheers, At Chrysler’s Farm, at Chateauquay, Storming like clarion-bursts our ears?

On soft Pacific slopes,--beside Strange floods that Northward rave and fall-- Where chafes Acadia’s chainless tide-- Thy sons await thy call.

They wait; but some in exile, some With strangers housed, in stranger lands;-- And some Canadian lips are dumb Beneath Egyptian sands.

O mystic Nile! Thy secret yields Before us; thy most ancient dreams Are mixed with far Canadian fields And murmur of Canadian streams.

But thou, my Country, dream not thou! Wake, and behold how night is done; How on thy breast, and o’er thy brow, Bursts the uprising Sun!

_Charles George Douglas Roberts._

CAMPBELL

CXCVII

ENGLAND

England, England, England, Girdled by ocean and skies, And the power of a world, and the heart of a race, And a hope that never dies.

England, England, England, Wherever a true heart beats, Wherever the rivers of commerce flow, Wherever the bugles of conquest blow, Wherever the glories of liberty grow, ’Tis the name that the world repeats.

And ye who dwell in the shadow Of the century’s sculptured piles, Where sleep our century-honoured dead While the great world thunders overhead, And far out miles on miles, Beyond the smoke of the mighty town, The blue Thames dimples and smiles; Not yours alone the glory of old, Of the splendid thousand years, Of Britain’s might and Britain’s right And the brunt of British spears.

Not yours alone, for the great world round Ready to dare and do, Scot and Celt and Norman and Dane, With the Northman’s sinew and heart and brain, And the Northman’s courage for blessing or bane Are England’s heroes too.

North and south and east and west, Wherever their triumphs be, Their glory goes home to the ocean-girt isle Where the heather blooms and the roses smile With the green isle under her lee; And if ever the smoke of an alien gun Should threaten her iron repose, Shoulder to shoulder against the world, Face to face with her foes, Scot and Celt and Saxon are one Where the glory of England goes. And we of the newer and vaster West, Where the great war banners are furled, And commerce hurries her teeming hosts, And the cannon are silent along our coasts, Saxon and Gaul, Canadians claim A part in the glory and pride and aim Of the Empire that girdles the world.

England, England, England, Wherever the daring heart By Arctic floe or torrid strand Thy heroes play their part; For as long as conquest holds the earth, Or commerce sweeps the sea, By orient jungle or western plain, Will the Saxon spirit be.

And whatever the people that dwell beneath, Or whatever the alien tongue, Over the freedom and peace of the world Is the flag of England flung. Till the last great freedom is found, And the last great truth be taught, Till the last great deed be done And the last great battle is fought; Till the last great fighter is slain in the last great fight And the war-wolf is dead in his den, England, breeder of hope and valour and might, Iron mother of men.

Yea, England, England, England, Till honour and valour are dead, Till the world’s great cannons rust, Till the world’s great hopes are dust, Till faith and freedom be fled, Till wisdom and justice have passed To sleep with those who sleep in the many-chambered vast, Till glory and knowledge are charnelled dust in dust, To all that is best in the world’s unrest, In heart and mind you are wed. While out from the Indian jungle To the far Canadian snows, Over the east and over the west, Over the worst and over the best, The flag of the world to its winds unfurled, The blood-red ensign blows.

_William Wilfred Campbell._

CXCVIII

THE WORLD-MOTHER

By crag and lonely moor she stands, This mother of half a world’s great men, And kens them far by sea-wracked lands, Or orient jungle or western fen.

And far out ’mid the mad turmoil, Or where the desert places keep Their lonely hush, her children toil, Or wrapt in wide-world honour sleep.

By Egypt’s sands or western wave, She kens her latest heroes rest, With Scotland’s honour o’er each grave, And Britain’s flag above each breast.

And some at home.--Her mother love Keeps crooning wind-songs o’er their graves, Where Arthur’s castle looms above, Or Strathy storms or Solway raves.

Or Lomond unto Nevis bends In olden love of clouds and dew; Where Trossach unto Stirling sends Greetings that build the years anew.

Out where her miles of heather sweep, Her dust of legend in his breast, ’Neath agèd Dryburgh’s aisle and keep, Her Wizard Walter takes his rest.

And her loved ploughman, he of Ayr, More loved than any singer loved By heart of man amidst those rare, High souls the world hath tried and proved;

Whose songs are first to heart and tongue, Wherever Scotsmen greet together, And, far-out alien scenes among, Go mad at the glint of a sprig of heather.

And he her latest wayward child, Her Louis of the magic pen, Who sleeps by tropic crater piled, Far, far, alas! from misted glen;

Who loved her, knew her, drew her so, Beyond all common poet’s whim;-- In dreams the whaups are calling low, In sooth her heart is woe for him.

And they, her warriors, greater none E’er drew the blade of daring forth, Her Colin under Indian sun, Her Donald of the fighting North.

Or he, her greatest hero, he Who sleeps somewhere by Nilus’ sands, Brave Gordon, mightiest of those free, Great captains of her fighting bands.

Yea, these and myriad myriads more, Who stormed the fort or ploughed the main, To free the wave or win the shore, She calls in vain, she calls in vain.

Brave sons of her, far severed wide By purpling peak or reeling foam; From western ridge or orient side, She calls them home, she calls them home.

And far, from east to western sea, The answering word comes back to her:-- ‘Our hands were slack, our hopes were free, We answered to the blood astir;

The life by Kelpie loch was dull, The homeward slothful work was done, We followed where the world was full, To dree the weird our fates had spun.

We built the brig, we reared the town, We spanned the earth with lightning gleam, We ploughed, we fought, ’mid smile and frown, Where all the world’s four corners team.

But under all the surge of life, The mad race-fight for mastery, Though foremost in the surgent strife, Our hearts went back, went back to thee.’

For the Scotsman’s speech is wise and slow, And the Scotsman’s thought it is hard to ken, But through all the yearnings of men that go, His heart is the heart of the northern glen.

His song is the song of the windy moor, And the humming pipes of the squirling din; And his love is the love of the shieling door, And the smell of the smoking peat within.

And nohap how much of the alien blood Is crossed with the strain that holds him fast, ‘Mid the world’s great ill and the world’s great good, He yearns to the Mother of men at last.

For there’s something strong and something true In the wind where the sprig of heather is blown; And something great in the blood so blue, That makes him stand like a man alone.

Yea, give him the road and loose him free, He sets his teeth to the fiercest blast, For there’s never a toil in a far countrie, But a Scotsman tackles it hard and fast.

He builds their commerce, he sings their songs, He weaves their creeds with an iron twist, And making of laws or righting of wrongs, He grinds it all as the Scotsman’s grist.

Yea, there by crag and moor she stands, This mother of half a world’s great men, And out of the heart of her haunted lands She calls her children home again.

And over the glens and the wild sea floors She peers so still as she counts her cost, With the whaups low calling over the moors, ‘Woe, woe, for the great ones she hath lost.’

_William Wilfred Campbell._

SCOTT

CXCIX

QUEBEC

Fierce on this bastion beats the noon-day sun; The city sleeps beneath me, old and grey; On convent roofs the quivering sunbeams play, And batteries guarded by dismantled gun. No breeze comes from the northern hills which run Circling the blue mist of the summer’s day; No ripple stirs the great stream on its way To those dim headlands where its rest is won.

What thunders shook these silent crags of yore! What smoke of battle rolled up plain and gorge While two worlds closed in strife for one brief span! What echoes still come ringing back once more! For on these heights of old God set His forge; His strokes wrought here the destinies of man.

_Frederick George Scott._

CC

IN MEMORIAM

Growing to full manhood now, With the care-lines on our brow, We, the youngest of the nations, With no childish lamentations, Weep, as only strong men weep, For the noble hearts that sleep, Pillowed where they fought and bled, The loved and lost, our glorious dead!

Toil and sorrow come with age, Manhood’s rightful heritage; Toil our arms more strong shall render, Sorrow make our heart more tender, In the heartlessness of time; Honour lays a wreath sublime-- Deathless glory--where they bled, Our loved and lost, our glorious dead!

Wild the prairie grasses wave O’er each hero’s new-made grave; Time shall write such wrinkles o’er us, But the future spreads before us Glorious in that sunset land-- Nerving every heart and hand, Comes a brightness none can shed, But the dead, the glorious dead!

Lay them where they fought and fell; Every heart shall ring their knell, For the lessons they have taught us, For the glory they have brought us. Tho’ our hearts are sad and bowed, Nobleness still makes us proud-- Proud of light their names will shed In the roll-call of our dead!

Growing to full manhood now, With the care-lines on our brow, We, the youngest of the nations, With no childish lamentations, Weep, as only strong men weep, For the noble hearts that sleep Where the call of duty led, Where the lonely prairies spread, Where for us they fought and bled, Our ever loved and glorious dead!

_Frederick George Scott._

SHERMAN

CCI

A WORD FROM CANADA

Lest it be said _One sits at ease Westward, beyond the outer seas, Who thanks me not that my decrees Fall light as love, nor bends her knees To make one prayer That peace my latter days may find_,-- Lest all these bitter things be said And we be counted as one dead, Alone and unaccredited I give this message to the wind:

Secure in thy security, Though children, not unwise are we; And filled with unplumbed love for thee,-- Call thou but once, if thou wouldst see! Where the grey bergs Come down from Labrador, and where The long Pacific rollers break Against the pines, for thy word’s sake Each listeneth,--alive, awake, And with thy strength made strong to dare.

And though our love is strong as spring, Sweet is it, too,--as sweet a thing As when the first swamp-robins sing Unto the dawn their welcoming. Yea, and more sweet Than the clean savour of the reeds Where yesterday the June floods were,-- Than perfumed piles of new cut fir That greet the forest-worshipper Who follows where the wood-road leads.

But unto thee are all unknown These things by which the worth is shown Of our deep love; and, near thy throne, The glory thou hast made thine own Hath made men blind To all that lies not to their hand,-- But what thy strength and theirs hath done: As though they had beheld the sun When the noon-hour and March are one Wide glare across our white, white land.

For what reck they of _Empire_,--they, Whose will two hemispheres obey? Why shouldst thou not count us but clay For them to fashion as they may In London-town? The dwellers in the wilderness Rich tribute yield to thee their friend; From the flood unto the world’s end Thy London ships ascend, descend, Gleaning--and to thy feet regress.

Yea, surely they think not at all Of us, nor note the outer wall Around thy realm imperial Our slow hands rear as the years fall; Which shall withstand The stress of time and night of doom; For we, who build, build of our love,-- Not as they built, whose empires throve And died,--for what knew they thereof In old Assyria, Egypt, Rome?