Canadian Battlefields
And Other Poems

BY
LIEUT.-COL. J. R. WILKINSON
PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR BY
WILLIAM BRIGGS
TORONTO
1899

Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine, by John Richardson Wilkinson, at the Department of Agriculture.

PREFACE.

In submitting “Canadian Battlefields and Other Poems” to a discerning public, I realize it may be marred by many errors; the harp may not always be in tune—some chords may jar upon the fastidious ear. Rhythm and harmony may not always present that mysterious appeal to the soul that approves, and proves the worth of all. Yet, withal, I feel that some thoughts and emotions of patriotism, love of home, the song of nature, the mystery of creation, and the impenetrable depths of infinitude, may be found and approved.

The subtle voice of nature, the voices of love, home, and country, have ever appealed to me, and impelled me to sing my humble song. And thus, in doubt and uncertainty, I cast it out on the world—the reading, critical public—asking that the pure, white veil of charity may conceal its rough edges and inequalities.

Seek but to benefit thy fellowman;
Let smiles, not frowns, his rugged path assail;
Better with blinded eyes his faults to scan
Than let the sin of wrong and scorn prevail.
J. R. WILKINSON.

Leamington, 1899.

CONTENTS.

CANADIAN BATTLEFIELDS
AND OTHER POEMS.

WHAT SHALL I SING?

What shall I sing, I prithee, O Muse?
For song burns my bosom to-day;
And it flows o’er me like a wave o’ the sea,
A dream-wrought, subtle melody.
Shall’t be of the wondrous present,
This scientific, restless age;
Or cull from the field the centuries yield
Rich gems from history’s page?

Shall it be of stern war and the cause
For which millions of men are slain,
And heroic days with glory ablaze,
Dear freedom and honor to gain?
Shall I sing of the stars of heaven
That forever their orbits keep—
Beautiful, serene stars of heaven,
Gemming the eternal deep?

Shall it be of the grand old ocean,
And its bright isles far away,
With life all free as th’ unbounded sea,
A subtle and golden day?
Shall I tell of the glory of sunset,
And the twilight soft on the lea,
The murmuring winds, through foliage and vines,
And the moon that silvers the sea?

Shall it be a lay of the seasons,
That fade like a dream away?
The spring so fair, and the perfumed air,
And the songsters that trill so gay?
And the summer robed in splendor,
Serene as a spirit dream,
Her throbs and sighs and cerulean skies
Would I make my soul’s bright theme?

Shall ’t be of the autumn’s fading,
And the winds that sob and sigh,
And the leaves of gold, drifting fold on fold,
And the flowers that droop and die;
The birds that trill us a last farewell,
Tenderly, sorrowfully sweet,
Saddening the heart, doomed ever to part,
And life’s work so incomplete?

Shall I tell of the white-robed winter
Sweeping down from icy zones,
And the frozen streams, and the pale, cold gleams,
And its desolate sobs and moans?
Ah! shall it be of home and mother,
And the years that have flown away,
And the loved of old, like a tale that’s told
From childhood’s dear happy day?

Shall ’t be of the innocent children,
Believing of such is heaven?
Their prattle and glee’s a joy unto me,
And care from the heart is driven.
Shall I sing of our lovèd country,
And these bright, fair homes of ours?
So happy and free from sea unto sea,
Guard well thy bulwarks and towers.

And the grand “Old Flag” floating o’er us,
Proudly ruling the boundless sea,
Ever unfurled, encircling the world,
Hath glory enough for me!
Shall I sing of man’s joys and sorrows?
Of woman’s undying love?
Of the ransomed that wait at the “pearly gate”
Of the “city of gold” above?

I would sing of all things beautiful,
The heroic and the true,
With a quenchless flame and a deathless fame
To brighten the whole world through.
A resurrection and a rising
To a grander, nobler life,
In brighter spheres, where the golden years
Exclude all of storm and strife.

SPEAK NOW.

Ah, me! the words unspoken
Might have saved a soul to-day—
And perhaps a heart was broken,
And made hopeless by the way.
If we poor blundering creatures
But in wisdom would speak now,
We should see more smiling features,
And less gloom on many a brow.

There would be far less of doubting,
And far less of weary pain;
If we ceased our cruel scouting;
We should wider friendship gain.
Many a way-worn wanderer
Would rejoice if he but knew
That absence maketh but fonder;
That our hearts are leal and true.

Why not speak the word of warning
When we know that danger’s nigh?
Why stand ye in idle scorning
Whilst the heedless ones pass by?
Why not help thy fallen brother
To regain his feet once more?
Do thy duty, let no other
For thy help in vain implore.

Why not spurn the demon slander
That hath slain so many hearts?
Should we listen e’en, or pander
Whilst he hurls his venomed darts?
Why not speak the words of kindness
To those whom we truly love?
Why should we in our dull blindness
Wait the summoning from above?

Why not do the deed that’s noble,
That life may the better be;
And thus scorning the ignoble,
Live in blameless purity?
Such are fearless when the battle
Rages on a blood-red field;
Fearing not the cannon’s rattle,
They but to grim death will yield.

Brave hearts like these have nobly died,
Fadeless crowns to such be given;
The good in heart, and purified
Shall wear more stars in heaven.
Rest not, nor sleep, be brave of soul,
Seek the lost to soothe and save;
For life is brief, so near the goal,
From our childhood to the grave.

THE BATTLE OF CHATEAUGUAY.

Fought October 26th, 1813. American Force, 3,500; British, 400.

Redly the October sun shone that day
O’er the golden landscape stretching away
To the Laurentian Hills, o’er vale and stream
As lovely as ever a poet’s dream.
O’er the land of the Maple Leaf so fair
Stole the wandering breeze, caressing there
With light, soft fingers, and murmuring low
Through the fading foliage, dying slow.
’Twas the peace of nature, touchingly grand,
Brooding over this fair Canadian land.

But another scene draws our thoughts away
To the far-famed field of the Chateauguay.
There beside it War’s trumpets fiercely blare;
And marshalling foemen are forming there!
The invader dares to pollute our soil;
But brave, true men will his purpose foil.
Noble de Salaberry, knowing no fear,
Dreads not the foe, who by thousands draw near.
Gallantly those Frenchmen stand by his side,
Sharpshooters, every one, true and tried;
And they coolly wait the oncoming foe,
And the river goes by in gentle flow.

“They come! they come! Voltigeurs, steady!
Aim low, aim low,—be calm now and ready;
Ye fight for your homes, and country so fair—
Yield not an inch, nor ever despair.”
Their rifles they raised, aimed steady and well,
Fired low, and hundreds before them fell!

The foe now open with thunderous roar;
Shot and shell from their guns they hotly pour.
Unflinching, the Voltigeurs firmly stand,
Though storm’d at by masses on every hand.
Swift volleys they hurl on the assaulting foe,
Sure and deadly by the river’s flow.

Checked in their advance by the Voltigeurs,
Who heroically the storm endure;
Patiently, though suffering loss and pain,
Their position they proudly, sternly maintain.

By sheer numbers being nearly surrounded,
Though the foe are stunned and confounded,
’Tis a critical time at Chateauguay.
Will de Salaberry in despair give way?
No! in sterner mould is the hero cast,
And will bar the way of the foe to the last.
Ah! a clever ruse he’s adopting now,
And a smile flits over his noble brow.

He extends his buglers widely in rear,
To sound the charge and lustily cheer.
’Twas a clever thought, and a master-stroke;
On the startled ear of the foe it broke,
And, frightened, they everywhere give way—
Lost is the field, and lost is the day.
Breaking into instant, headlong retreat,
From humiliating and sore defeat,
Over the border they swiftly fly,
And the “Red Cross Banner” still floats on high.

All hail, de Salaberry! hail, Voltigeurs!
Thy fame still lives, it forever endures;
Ye sternly barred there the foe that day,
By the far-famed stream of the Chateauguay.

And redly the October sun sank low,
Flooding the world with its crimsoning glow;
And the shadows fell on the golden scene
As beautiful as e’er a poet’s dream.
And the pale, dead faces were laid away
By the murmuring stream of the Chateauguay!
And white-winged peace hovered there once more
In the fading light by the river’s shore.

THE DEEP MINES.

Delve down in the deep mines, O restless man!
Wrest from the deep mines the red, red gold;
Seize the diamonds and the precious gems;
In the deep, vast mines lies wealth untold.
Win from the deep sea, from the uttermost sea,
The hoarded treasures of Neptune’s realm.
Command thou thine own staunch, dauntless barque;
Hold the chart, and thyself guide the helm.

Quaff thou from the deep things of life, O man,
The things that make life more broad and great.
Revere the good, the noble, and true;
Grasp destiny from the hand of fate;
Chain the elements to thy chariot wheels;
Count all things subservient to thy will—
The things that ennoble assimilate,
Pure as the cool, sparkling mountain rill.

Drink thou of the deep wells of love, O man!
For life is empty without its sway;
The love of friends, and e’en our fellowman,
Make darkest night seem bright as the day.
Be kind, considerate of thy brother;
Smooth somewhat if thou canst his rugged way;
Bear each other’s burdens, battle side by side—
United ye shall surely win the day.

Delve deep in thine own bosom, O man!
Pluck gems of thought that dormant lie;
Let thy fiery energy and deathless zeal
Move the hearts of men, lift their souls on high.
If thou canst not o’er the mountain go,
Penetrate it to the vale beyond;
Look upward and onward, brave, pure soul,
And Fortune may touch thee with her wand.

But if o’ertaken by an adverse fate,
And thy dreams of greatness fade away,
Front thou the storm and battle’s fiery rage;
Yield but to death—death’s lurid, fatal day!
If all thy years should lead by lowly ways,
Where wealth and fame ne’er ope their shining wings,
Be comforted, do thy humble duty well,
In heaven thou mayst be honored more than kings.

LAURA SECORD; OR, THE BATTLE OF BEAVER DAMS.

Fought June 24th, 1813. British, 47 Regulars and 200 Indians Americans, 570, with 50 Cavalry and 2 Guns.

She knew, and her heart beat faster,
The foe would march that day;
And resolved, though only a woman,
To silently steal away
And warn the outpost at Beaver Dams;
Alone, and on foot, to go
Through the dim and awesome forest,
To evade the vigilant foe.

No one thought of a woman,
And she gained a path she knew
In the lonesome, stately forest,
And over the dark way flew.
On and on with a beating heart,
And never a pause for rest;
Twenty miles of dim and distance,
And the sun low down the west.

Startled sometimes to terror
By the blood-curdling cry
Of wolves from the faint far distance,
And sometimes nearer by;
And hollow sounds and whispers
That rose from the forest deep;
Ghostly and phantom voices
That caused her nerves to creep.

But she pauses not, nor falters,
But presses along the way;
Noiselessly through the distance,
Through the shadows weird and gray.
In time must the warning be given,
She must not, must not fail;
Though rough is the path and toilsome,
Her courage must prevail.

“To arms! to arms, FitzGibbon!”
Came a woman’s thrilling cry;
“Lose not a precious moment—
The foe! the foe is nigh!”
And a woman pale and weary
Burst on the startled sight;
Out from the dark awesome forest,
Out of the shadowy night.

“They come! they come, six hundred strong,
Stealing upon you here!
But I, a weak woman, tell you,
Prepare and have no fear.”
The handful of British heroes
Resolve the outpost to save,
With the aid of two hundred Indians,
Allies cunning and brave.

Still as death the line is waiting
The onset of the foe;
And the summer winds make whisper
In the foliage soft and low.
“Ready!” and each heart beat faster;
“Fire low, and without fear.”
And they fired a crashing volley,
And gave a defiant cheer.

Staggered by the deadly missiles,
That like a mighty blow,
Fell swift on the line advancing,
Fell on the astonished foe.
And for two long, desperate hours
The furious fight raged there;
Till the foemen, foiled and beaten,
Surrendered in despair.

Well done, gallant FitzGibbon!
Thy name shall live in story;
Thy daring feat of arms that day
Is wreathed with fadeless glory.
One other name my song would praise,
A patriot soul so brave,
That dared the forest’s lonely wilds
FitzGibbon’s post to save.

Noble woman! heroic soul!
We would honor thee to-day;
Thou canst not, shall not be forgot.
More lustrous is the ray
Time reflects upon thy deed.
Thy talismanic name—
Canadians, sound it through the land,
Perpetuate her fadeless fame!

THE SEA AND THE SOUL.

Oh, the sea! the sea! how it stirs my soul,
As its bright bounding billows onward roll;
Unfettered they toss their crests on high,
As if to assault the far vaulted sky.

Oh, the sea! the sea! when it murmurs sweet,
And its silver waves fall down at my feet;
And it flashes and ripples in sunny smiles,
Far away by a thousand happy isles.

Oh, the sea! the sea! when the wild winds roar,
And its thunderous waves rush on the shore;
And the dread tempest sweeps the storm-torn sky,
And the world is drown’d in its madden’d cry.

Oh, the sea! the sea! when the stars’ pale light
Twinkle afar through the realms of night;
And the silver moon looks down on the tide,
O’er its undulating bosom far and wide.

Oh, the sea! the sea! unchained and free;
A limitless, typical mystery
Of eternity; how it rolls, it rolls,
And its awesome voice is warning men’s souls!

Oh, the sea! the sea! what of the lone graves
Of the lov’d and lost in thy unknown caves?
Where are the ships of a thousand stern years?
Man’s buried hopes, and his million tears?

But the sea! the sea! ’tis my glowing theme,
And I love to ponder beside it and dream,
With the lights and shadows falling between,
The weird phantom land of the might have been.

Oh, the sea! the sea! when I yearn for rest,
And the sun falls down in the purple west,
I seek thy shadowed and wave-worn shore,
And restful repose my bosom steals o’er.

THE BATTLE OF LUNDY’S LANE.

Fought July 25th, 1814. American Force, 5,000; British and Canadians, 2,800.

The summer sun down the sky fell low,
And soft, cool winds more gently did blow,
And the stream swept by with resistless flow
On that July eve of the long ago,—
A lovely landscape as ever was seen,
And nature’s serenity crowned the scene.
A gold light shimmered o’er hill and stream,
And the shadows lengthened softly between.
Thus o’er this beautiful Canadian land
Fell the hush of nature, soothing and bland.

But hark! on the startled ear there comes
The blare of trumpets and roll of drums,
And war’s dread panoply bursts on the scene,
With its rumbling roar and thunder between,
As the bannered foe draws proudly nigh,
And the outposts before them quickly fly.
But Drummond draws up on the famous plain,
On the undulations of Lundy’s Lane.

On a rise in the centre his guns he placed,
Deployed his infantry, and sternly faced
The menacing foe in battle-array,
As the shades crept out on the dying day.
Sixteen hundred dauntless, determined souls
The heroic Drummond proudly controls.

In contiguous lines the foe now comes,
To the blare of trumpet and beat of drums,
With supporting columns to reinforce
And cheer the lines on their onward course.
Drummond’s batteries open with deafening roar,
Shaking the trembling river and shore;
And hundreds go down in the deadly storm:
Torn are their ranks, but again they re-form,
Move forward once more with a rush and cry,
Confident that Drummond will turn and fly.
But he stands fast, and his battery flashes,
And his sturdy infantry volleys and crashes
On the brave advancing lines of the foe
Rushing up from the slope below.
Brown’s infantry charged to the battery’s side,
But to capture the guns in vain they tried.
They were met with the steel by Drummond’s men
And hurled confused down the slope again.
They tried it again—rushed forward once more,
But broke like a wave on a rock-bound shore!

Brown’s supports were brought up, and his cannon roared,
All along the lines the infantry poured
A withering, ceaseless and consuming fire:
And the rage of battle grew wilder, higher.
The enemy charged and charged again
Till their life-blood crimsoned the emerald plain,
And the awful din and the carnage there
Filled wives’ and mothers’ hearts with despair.

At length the long twilight closed around
The smoking cannon and death-strewn ground,
And the pitying night drew o’er the scene
Of horror a mournful and sable screen.
Still amid the darkness they fighting fell,
And the surging ranks bore a fire of hell!
Muzzle to muzzle the hot guns stormed,
Rending the ranks that again re-formed,
And rushed to the charge again and again
Through the infantry’s fire and batteries’ flame.
The guns were won, and retaken again
In the revel of death, at Lundy’s Lane.

Here Riall came up with twelve hundred more,
To the help of Drummond, bleeding and sore:
Twelve hundred Canadians and regulars to stand
To the death for this proud Canadian land.
The brave foe brought up reinforcements, too,
Determined Drummond’s lines to pierce through;
And they close in a mad, mad rush again,
And the roar of the hot guns shake the plain.
Lurid, red flashes illumine the night,
Revealing a moment the dreadful sight
Of the lines struggling there in the gloom,
Where hundreds go down to a gory doom.

But Drummond the foemen foiled everywhere,
And disheartened, on the verge of despair,
At the midnight hour they fled from the field,—
Broken and beaten, they were forced to yield.
Throwing their baggage in the stream, in fright
They fled away in a desperate plight.

The moon had risen o’er the pitiful scene,
Her lovely face, all mild and serene,
Lighting up the horror of carnage there,
Revealing the ghastly and upward stare
Of pale, dead faces peering out of the gloom,
Just touched by the silvery midnight moon.
Lay them away on the hard-fought field
Where the musketry volleyed and cannon pealed!
War’s tumult shall rouse them again no more,
The heroic dead by the river’s shore.
Slumber on, brave hearts! ye do battle no more
Near Niagara’s awesome, eternal roar!

Oh, land of the Maple Leaf so fair,
Breathe even to-day a fervent prayer
For those intrepid souls who, fighting, fell
For home and country they loved so well.
Canadians! tell it—repeat it again—
How our fathers stood there at Lundy’s Lane,
With the regulars fearlessly side by side—
Stood there as heroes, conquered and died.
To rescue this land from the invader’s tread
That field was piled with immortal dead.

MY WIFE.

I want her woman’s kisses,
I want her love and truth
And e’er as kind and gentle
As in the days of youth.
I want her e’er beside me,
Not enslaved, but free;
A help in time of trouble,
And a comfort unto me.

We’d share life’s joys together,
Of its ills bear equal part;
In storm, or sunny weather,
Trust each other’s faithful heart.
I’d have her loving counsel
When perplexed with care;
When the clouds are lowering,
And threatening everywhere.

I’d hear her happy laughter
Rippling light and gay;
And list her sweet voice singing
Tender songs, that drive away
The petty irritations
That fret life’s every day,
And if not quickly banished
Turn the bluest skies to gray.

I want her with the children
To guard their tender feet;
To soothe and ever bless them
With her presence fair and sweet.
’Tis mother’s subtle influence
That makes or mars us all:
By her early lessons given
We either rise or fall.

And when the skies are smiling
O’er all the summer land,
And nature is enraptured,
I’d clasp her gentle hand,
And list the songs that greet us,
Hear the wind’s plaint and sigh,
Wooing the summer’s beauty
As it softly treadeth by.

I’d look when twilight falleth
On the world in dreamy rest,
And golden rays still linger
In glory in the west.
In that rapt quiet hour
We’d watch the pale moon rise,
And in the tender silence
Dream of fadeless Paradise.

When the shadow-land I enter,
And fails life’s fleeting breath,
I’d cross the stream beside her,
The stream that we call death.
Life’s years of light and shadow,
Passed in sweet felicity,
Should be but the beginning
Of our day, eternity.

NIAGARA.

I was rapt in unutterable amaze
As I looked upon its awful front,
And saw the terrific roll of waters
As down the deadly mesmeric gorge they fell
In power irresistible, tremendous,
As if the wrath of God would rend the world asunder
For the sin and wrong that man hath done!
And the earth trembled as one in fear—
And the thunderous roar of its awesome voice
Made all else seem silent as the dead!

Yet, majestic and supremely beautiful art thou
When the god of day pours o’er thy front his wondrous light,
Or when the golden stars and dreaming, silvery moon
Lighteth up the slumb’rous shadows of the night.
Aye, thou art sublime, though terrible, Niagara!
How diminutive are man’s works compared to thee!
Thou awe-inspiring, terrific world-wide wonder—
Marvellous work of the Deity!

And thou hast rolled and rolled, Niagara;
Adown the ages of the dim, mysterious past
Thou hast thundered in derision of the flight of time,
And mocked when nations to the grave were cast!
But the Creator holds thee in the hollow of His hand,
And when the sea shall render up its ghastly dead
Thou shalt be shorn of thy stupendous power,
And bow thy cruel and imperious head.

THE OJIBWAYS.

Along the shores of Point Pelee,
Three hundred years ago,
The summer sun in rapture shone,
And pure winds soft did blow.
The laughing waters rose and fell
In soft caressing lave;
And flashing sea-birds dipt their wings,
And white gulls skimmed the wave.

The mallard ducks in thousands flew
Along the rippling tide,
And eagles soared in heaven’s blue
In freedom far and wide;
And gay kingfishers watched the surf,
And divers cleaved the deep.
Across the waters far away
Stole murmurs strange and sweet.

The finny tribes in schools did glide
Along the sandy bars;
The splendor of their jewelled sides
Flashed up like silver stars.
The sturgeon floundered in their glee,
Mud pouts and cats at play—
A subtle gladness brooded there
Throughout the fair sweet day.

The warm south winds stole o’er the lake
Along the shifting bars;
The bright waves met in dashing foam,
Flashing like crystal stars.
And skies serene, divinely blue,
Met the enraptured gaze;
On the horizon far away
Hung a delicious haze.

Ashore! ashore! let’s leap ashore,
And glide ’neath cedar shade,
Where pine trees raise their fronded crests
O’er many a sylvan glade;
Where juniper in clusters grow,
And twining vines wreathe o’er
The nooks and winding velvet ways
That reach from shore to shore.

The walnut and the oak tree, too,
Their sturdy forms uprear;
The haunts of squirrel and raccoon,
Wild-cat and savage bear,
And mink and otter haunt these shades.
Their wants are all supplied;
Sleek creatures, how they frisk and play
In all their graceful pride!

Oft, too, is heard the howl of wolf,
When night-time closes down;
The sylvan glades, lost in the shades,
With their fierce cries resound.
The bounding deer and graceful fawn
Here, too, have made their home;
Untamed, unfettered, and all free,
These lovely haunts they roam.

Hark to that wave of melody,
That here so sweetly thrills;
It flows from all the nooks and glens,
And from the sunlit hills!
O wrens, and redbirds fair and sweet,
Jays, robins, join the song,
And bluebirds with the azure wing,
A blithe and happy throng!

The whippoorwill, and catbird, too,
Whose song steals on the night,
The chatter of the festive owl
That shouts in weird delight!
A thousand voices join the lay,
And rhythmic fluttering wings
Of every hue play interlude
To the hymn that nature sings.

See, the flowers of every hue—
Wild roses like a dream—
Breathe out their incense on the air,
Odorous and serene!
The lily and the violet sweet
Peep up on every side,
And buttercups and wild bluebells
In all their native pride.

CHAPTER II.

Ah! Nature with a lavish hand
Hath here her treasures strewn,
All undisturbed by ruthless man
That scathes and mars too soon.
Back o’er the silent phantom past,
Three hundred years ago,
Fair Point Pelee in rapture lay
Where laughing waters flow.

’Twas here the red man made his home,
Beneath the cedar shade;
The wigwams rose so quaint and queer
By quiet nook and glade.
This, the home of the Ojibways,
Fierce, untamed, and free;
They dwelt in peace and plenteousness
Beside this inland sea.

And Manitou had blest them so
With fish and luscious game;
The hunting grounds were so replete
Before the white man came!
Where now are termed the “Indian fields”
They grew the Indian corn,
And laugh and song with sweet content
Roused up the summer morn.

Far on the north the marshlands lay,
And pond, and wide lagoon;
The home of snipe and mallard ducks,
Geese, teal, and lonely loon.
Among the reeds, and rushes, too,
The muskrats built their homes;
They dotted o’er the wide expanse
With quaint, ingenious domes.

And Willow Island far away,
Stirred by the toying breeze
That makes the rice and grass fields wave
Like tossing emerald seas.
From east to west, from shore to shore,
The teeming marshlands lay;
The Narrows, by the western shore,
A picturesque causeway.

The pass that leads by Sturgeon Creek,
And circles Pigeon Bay,
By which are reached fair Seacliff Heights,
And regions far away;
And looking southward, where the sun
In golden splendor smiles
On Pelee Island, fitly crowned
The queen of Erie’s isles.

Aye, here it was, the red man’s home,
Three hundred years ago;
And peace and plenty blest his lot
By the bright water’s flow.
He had the teeming forest glades
For every kind of game;
And Erie’s fulness rendered up
Fine fish of every name.

He drew on all the wide marshlands
For furs both soft and warm;
The bear and wild wolf tribute gave;
And when the winter’s storm
Whitened upon the sleeping hills,
Prepared, and safe from harm,
The wigwams all with plenty stored,
He knew no fell alarm.

Ah! oft these shores resounded
To his children’s sport so gay,
And the songs of Indian maidens,
Graceful as fawns at play;
And the shout and free, wild laughter
Of youths at game by day;
Or as o’er the laughing waters
In canoes they bore away.

Sometimes to the distant islands,
Or over Pigeon Bay,
They went in bold adventure
By sun, or star’s pale ray.
But the chiefs and older huntsmen
Smoked in serene content;
Many moons had taught them wisdom,
Calmness they with pleasure blent.

Thus in the summer’s rapture
Life was a peaceful dream;
And when winter fell upon them
The wigwams were serene
With warmth, good cheer and comfort:
The red man loved his home;
From his kindred and his nation
His heart would never roam.

He believed in the Great Spirit;
His subtle soul would thrill
To the voices heard in nature,
That taught the Great Spirit’s will.
Strange, mysterious people!
Who can thy origin trace?
Are ye one of the lost ten tribes
Of Israel’s wandering race?

CHAPTER III.

Awake! awake, Ojibways!
To dream in peace no more,
For there comes a bold invader
From eastward by the shore.
Rowing in swift, strong bateaux,
With strokes both strong and long,
To the cadence of fearless voices
In a gay boatman’s song,

Come full two hundred singers,
In boats, a score or more,
Far o’er the laughing waters,
Skirting the eastern shore.
Who are they, these fearless strangers,
Armed with sword and lance,
With arquebuse and musketoon?
They are fiery sons of France,

Exploring the boundless forests,
Locating rivers and seas;
Ignoring the red man’s title,
Coming his rights to seize.
Ha! they spy the eastern outlet
That leads to the lagoon,
Far across the teeming marshlands,
The domain of teal and loon.

They enter with eager spirits
This strange tract to explore;
And halting not, they discover
Point Pelee’s western shore.
A causeway of cedar and hillock,
From lagoon to lake they trace;
And their bateaux quickly transport
By way of the Carrying Place.

And they gaze on the expansion,
And cheerily launch away,
And disappear in the distance,
Across wide Pigeon Bay.
The Ojibways in amazement
Saw this strange concourse pass by;
A foreboding premonition
Whispered of danger nigh.

Mitwaos in council assembled
His chiefs and warriors brave;
Many scores of fiery stalwarts,
Of countenance stern and brave.
And calmly they deliberated,
Counselling for peace or war;
Should they allow these daring strangers
Their sacred rights to mar?

After the chiefs had spoken
Of the pending dangers nigh,
It was finally decided
The strangers might pass by
In peace, and unmolested,
If they did not interfere
With the vast teeming hunting grounds
Of the nation, far and near.

When three moons had waxed and waned,
The voyageurs, returning, came
From over the western waters,
Lit by the sunset’s flame.
And they drew up at the Narrows,
The Carrying Place again,
A “cut” in the cedar hillocks
Aglow with autumn’s flame.

De Orville, their gallant leader,
And Pontgravé and Le Jeune,
Knew their followers were weary,
And made decision soon
To bivouac near the marshlands
For a day of needed rest,
And to replenish their commissariat
With fish and game the best.

The camp-fires were all alighted
At the eve’s afterglow,
And the pines and cedars quivered,
And the waves made murmur low.
The scene was worthy a Rembrandt,
So rich the light and shade,
And the starry vault above them,
And the winds that whisper made.

“A song! a song!” de Orville cried,
“The night is rife with glory.
Let’s while a merry hour away
In singing and in story.”
“A song! a song!” as one they cry,
“Life hath enough of sorrow;
Sing while we may with hearts so gay,
Care cometh with the morrow.”

“Le Jeune! Le Jeune! lead on, lead on,
The stars are laughing o’er us;
Give us thy latest and thy best,
And we will join the chorus.”
Le Jeune had a poetic soul,
And voice of wondrous sweetness;
He reached men’s better, nobler part,
And won them to completeness.

And the groups about the camp-fires,
A picturesque, gay throng,
Heard many a quaint old story,
Pun, laugh, and ringing song;
And thus ’mid the wilds of nature
Passed the joyous hours away.
Light-hearted, merry Voyageurs,
Ever gallant and gay,

Beside the deep glowing embers,
Passed the night in calm repose,
And in the soft early dawning
Refreshened they uprose;
And with arquebuse and musketoon,
Spear, trap, and fishing-line,
They scattered o’er the marshlands
And ’neath the haunts of pine.

And from the Narrows and the shore,
Marshlands and wide lagoons,
There burst the crash of arquebuse
And roar of musketoons.
And all day long the sport went on;
At eve they counted o’er
A tempting hoard of luscious game,
Right welcome to their store.

CHAPTER IV.

The Ojibways from a distance
Marked the slaughter of their game,
And their untamed fiery spirits
With revenge were all aflame.
And Mitwaos, their brave leader,
Summoned his chiefs once more;
Their souls were fiercely chafing,
And their savage hearts were sore.

And as bursts a pent-up torrent
They pronounce for instant war
Not one dissenting chieftain
The unity to mar.
The runners go swiftly forward
The braves to summon now;
And there’s hurried preparation,
And sternness on each brow.

The young and fearless warriors
Meet in the cedar shade
The tender Indian maiden,
And farewells are quickly made.
And the stern, unbending chieftain
Clasps his true-hearted wife,
And kisses his dear papooses,
And girds him for the strife.

Their dauntless leader, Mitwaos,
Who to death will do his part,
Seeks his wife, the Singing Redbird,
And folds her to his heart.
Ah! those heathen souls are tender
For children, wife, or mother,
Their nation, and a father’s love,
For sister and for brother.

To the south of the Indian Fields
Their rendezvous is made,
Where the vines and the cedars cluster,
And deeper glooms the shade.
Here gather fast the Ojibways,
Just at the twilight’s close,
To await the dawn’s pale glimmer
To fall upon their foes.

Now all girted up with wampum,
With scalping-knife and spear,
With tomahawk, bow and arrows,
The foe they do not fear.
And each chief hath his allotment
Of braves to do his will;
And well they know how to attack
With cunning and with skill.

Directed all by Mitwaos,
Whose plans are now complete,
Each one his post of duty knows,
And how the foe to meet.
Then at the lonesome midnight hour,
When the world ’s wrapped in sleep,
The Ojibways form for battle,
And on the foeman creep.

Proud Mitwaos in the centre,
The whole at his command;
Leaping Panther with the right wing,
Who like a rock will stand;
And Lone Wolf with the left wing,
The red men love him well,
And many an act of daring
His nation of him tell.

The signal, an owl hoot, given,
And stealthily through the gloom
They move forward in position
To victory or their doom.
Aye, noiselessly gliding onward
Through darkness dense and still,
By the signal of the hooting owl
Or the cry of whippoorwill.

CHAPTER V.

Thus gain they the dark hillocks
By the Carrying Place,
And like phantoms take position
The waiting foe to face.
Aye, waiting were the Voyageurs,
In silence, but prepared;
Not as Mitwaos expected,
To be surprised and snared.

De Orville became suspicious
Of the distant, sullen mood
Of the Ojibways, and took counsel
And the usual course pursued;
Facing the impending danger,
Placed sentries on the rounds,
Alert to the slightest movement,
Awake to the faintest sounds.

The fires were allowed to smoulder,
And, fearing no alarms,
Their appointments in good order,
In ranks they lay on their arms.
But Le Jeune, whose tour of duty
Was at the midnight drear,
Was disturbed by sounds peculiar
That fell weirdly on the ear.

The hoot of the owl repeated,
The cry of whippoorwill,
Nearer, and ever nearer,
Through darkness dense and still.
Then swiftly rousing de Orville,
They learn the foe is nigh,
And quietly rouse the voyageurs,
Prepared to win or die.

So coolly they wait the onset,
And just at the dawn’s pale light
Comes a flight of hissing arrows,
And on the fading night
Bursts a yell all fierce and hideous,
As, opening the affray,
By a wild rush to overwhelm
They hope to win the day.

But bursts the crash of arquebuse
And roar of musketoon,
And the fatal stroke of halberd,
And swords that deal death’s doom.
And the Ojibways reel backward
With many a brave laid low,
Close beside the silver waters,
With their gentle ebb and flow.

But the Ojibways, though repellèd,
Are firm and undismayed;
And fiercely they rush down again
From the dense cedar shade.
Preceded by a hail of arrows,
With tomahawk, spear, and knife,
They spring to deadly encounter,
Hand to hand, and life for life!

But again out-crash the arquebuse,
And roar the musketoons;
Delivered is the scathing fire
By sections and platoons.
The brave Ojibways are falling fast,
But they fiercely press the foe,
And shouts and cries are ringing
As they stagger to and fro.

And stern Mitwaos, unflinching,
A lofty soul so brave,
Calmly and proudly directing,
Death-dealing strokes he gave.
And on the right, Leaping Panther,
Gallantly leading the way,
By example to his warriors
Must surely win the day.

Lone Wolf on the left is foremost,
An avalanche in the storm
Of battle, sternly raging there
On that September morn!
Again they are driven backward,
With ranks bloody and torn;
But they rally, and charge again,
Though of many red braves shorn.

Once more for their homes and nation—
They’ll leap on the foe once more,
And wrest from him the victory,
Or die by Pelee’s shore.
Again rose their shout of defiance,
Their bosoms were aflame;
And those fearless, dusky heroes
Rushed to the carnage again.

De Orville had not been idle,
But detached the brave Le Jeune
To turn their flank by the marshlands,
And, in the onset, soon
To fall on the rear of Mitwaos
With the deadly musketoons—
Two score of valiant Frenchmen,
With volleys by platoons.

The shouts of the enraged combatants,
As on each other they fell,
And the roar of the musketoons
Seemed as a blast from hell!
The air was hissing with arrows,
As they closed in the strife;
Spear, tomahawk, knife, and warclub
Drank many a Frenchman’s life.

But the lance, the sword, and halberd
Do well their deadly work;
Not once do those gallant Frenchmen
The fiery ordeal shirk.
Ha! see, where the fight grows deadly,
Meet de Orville and Mitwaos—
Proudly seeking each other,
Their deadly weapons cross.

And as the red lightning’s flash
They come to the fierce assault,
And mighty blows fall fast like hail;
They spring like panthers, and vault,
To thrust, to guard, and to ward
The crushing blow of the brands,
Followed swift by skilful strokes
Delivered by master hands.

De Orville is cool and collected,
With sinews strong as steel;
Mitwaos he hath sorely wounded—
Ah! see the totter and reel
Of the unyielding chieftain,
Who sinks, aye, sinks and dies!
And the Ojibways’ hearts are broken;
List to their mournful cries!

Just then from the south came crashing
The fire of brave Le Jeune;
And the red men fell thick and fast
To the roar of musketoon.
Assailed from the front and the rear,
And their brave chieftain dead,
A panic seized upon them,
And they turned by the shore and fled!

Fled southward, beyond the hillocks,
Leaving their wounded and slain—
Never again to know freedom,
But degradation and pain!
There was mourning in the wigwams
For the braves that came no more—
Gone to be with Manitou—
And the nation’s heart is sore.

And many an Indian maiden
Pined in the cedar shade,
And the tender Singing Redbird
Soon in her grave was laid;
And many an Indian mother,
Once joyous as the day,
Mourned for her sons death-silenced,
And forever hid away.

And the old men sit in silence
Beside the sobbing shore;
Hushed is the song and laughter,
It resoundeth nevermore
Through cedar and pine glades ever
Rustling to and fro,
Just as the winds caressed them
Three hundred years ago!

CHAPTER VI.

The stern victors, too, are mourning
Over their dauntless slain;
Full twoscore of death-stilled heroes,
Relieved of life’s care and pain,
After the battle was over,
Lone Wolf and good Pontgravé
Were found in the grasp of each other,
And were laid in one grave away.

Then in the cut through the Narrows
The slain were buried deep,
And a requiem mass sung o’er them,
And forever there they sleep.
The Frenchmen then turned eastward,
Over the wide lagoon,
By the domes of busy muskrat
And affrighted mallard and loon,

And disappeared in the distance,
By the eastern shore afar;
While a truce for a space is given
To exterminating war.
But a hundred years of despoiling
Ruined the Ojibways,
And dwindled away the nation,
And miserable grew their days.

Their rights were all unregarded
When the dominant white man came;
Then the red man grew degenerate,
And his sun went down in shame.
To-day by the Narrows dreaming,
No vestige or relic we trace
Of the once proud Indian nation,
Save their bones at the Carrying Place.[A]

Uncovered by the storms of centuries,
That drift the sands away,
White and ghastly they are mouldering
Remorselessly to decay.
But beyond the northern marshlands,
In regions far away,
Wander two quaint, lonely relics,
Poor Joe and Bill Chippewa.

To-day, where the south winds murmur
By Pelee’s lovely shores,
I pause in sad meditation,
And the mind in fancy soars
Backward through time’s dim corridors;
Dreamily thoughts will flow
To the palmy days of the Ojibways
Three hundred years ago.

[A] Indian tradition goes to show that a fierce battle occurred at the Carrying Place between the Ojibways and Voyageurs. Proof of this seems to be furnished in the fact that the “cut” there is full of human bones.

WRECKED.

All along the sea-lines dreary,
Dark and threatening the storm arose;
And shadows appalling crept o’er us,
Disturbed was the ocean’s repose!
And madly it leaped upon us,
Engulfed in a deadly gloom,
As the sea’s tumultuous fury
Hurled our ship on to certain doom!

Wrecked on the vastness of ocean,
Cast up on an isle remote,
Storm-worn by the roll of centuries,
By the billows savagely smote—
An interminable expansion
Of stern dreariness all around,
Indescribable desolation,
And a weird solitude profound!

And this forever before me,
Wearing my spirit away;
God’s hand seems heavy upon me,
And I’m very weary to-day.
And ever a fair face haunts me,
White hands that put coldly away—
Are ye beckoning over the ocean?
Is regret in thy bosom to-day?

And through the weirdness of night-time
I hear the moaning, incessant roar
Of the waves, that ever repeateth,
Sobbingly, “Lanore, nevermore!”
Thus through my feverish dreaming
It evermore seemeth to me
That her name forever is murmured
By the lonesome voice of the sea.

And thus I’m wearily waiting
The rescue, that never comes,
Alone on this desolate islet
The mariner distantly shuns;
Straining my worn eyes out ever
O’er the dreary wastes of the sea;
But no ship—no ship e’er cometh,
And pleading hope dieth in me.

Aye, nothing but sky and ocean,
Encircling me everywhere,
And the boom and swash of the billows,
And the sun’s incessant glare!
This only by day and by day,
This for the years on years,
Alone, in the wilds of the ocean,
Worn out with despair and tears.

THE BATTLE OF CHRYSLER’S FARM.

Fought November 11th, 1813. American Force, 2,000; British and Canadians, 800.

With his right resting on the St. Lawrence,
His left by a sheltering wood,
Morrison deployed his eight hundred
And in the clear field firmly stood;
Eight hundred firm British and Canadians,
Determinedly biding there,
With the Red Cross Banner above them,
Flaunting proudly in the crisp, cool air.

Well they knew that Boyd was advancing
With two thousand to crush their line;
But they stood like a wall, and as silent,
In that trying, momentous time.
Aye, for the moment before the battle
Far more dreadfully tries men’s souls
Than when thousands are falling about them,
And its madd’ning din round them rolls!

Then, too, it was an event momentous
For this fair Canada of ours—
So much on the stern issue depended,
So much on two desperate hours.
Nigh and nigher, wilder and higher,
To blaring trump and rolling drum,
Covering their front with a skirmish line,
On in war’s wild clamor they come!

“Fire not a shot till the word is given!
Let the proud foe draw very near;
Then, like an avalanche, sweep their blue ranks—
Remain steady, and have no fear!”
Thus Morrison cried to his thin red line,
Silently awaiting the word;
Though the foe had opened with clamorous roar,
Not a man in that firm line stirred.

At last the British the signal receive,
And a mighty blow is given;
A devastating rush of iron hail
Through the foeman’s ranks is driven.
And, oh! how that red line volleyed and flamed
Cool and steady, they fired low,
And crash after crash, in tumultuous din,
Fell on the suffering foe!

And for two consuming and fatal hours,
They struggled ’mid smoke and flame,
Till the earth was strewn with the gallant dead,
Where Boyd hurled his thousands in vain.
Then ruined and beaten, and punished sore,
He fled from defeat away;
Victory perched on our banners once more
On that ever-remembered day.

Canadian and British valor prevailed,
And down through the annals of time
Their heroic deeds we commemorate,
In hist’ry as jewels to shine.
O sunny land of the dear Maple Leaf,
In union abiding and free
Under the Old Flag of a thousand years,
Floating o’er us from sea to sea!

SUMMER TWILIGHT.

I sit at the dear twilight hour
Where the lilies and roses sleep,
And the thoughts that come unto me
Are oh! so calm and so sweet.
I list the sound of a footfall
I know will come unto me
At the golden glow of sunset,
When shadows steal o’er the sea,

All restful and soul refreshing
As dew to the drooping flower,
Inwardly invigorating,
Imparting new life and power.
And thus, removed from the turmoil
Of day, with its din and strife,
I listen in calm contentment
To the hum of insect life.

The songs I hear in the branches,
Just stirred by the wandering breeze,
A concert of matchless music,
Fill my heart with gladsome ease.
The silvery, mystic moonlight
Enfoldeth the earth and the sea,
And the summer night is throbbing
In nature’s full harmony.

O sun, and sea, and shadow!
O eve with thy dreamy light!
I revel amid thy splendor,
Enrapt in a subtle delight!
Aleene! I await thy coming,
And the clasp of thy gentle hand,
To wander in blissful dreaming
Near heaven’s own borderland!

CANADIAN HOMES.

Canadian homes! Canadian homes!
Ye dot this wide Dominion o’er,
From the Atlantic’s ebb and flow
To the far, far Pacific’s shore!
Nestling by a thousand streams,
Crowning a thousand lofty hills,
A thousand valleys own thy sway,
The patriot e’er with rapture thrills.

A hundred rivers wend their way
By fertile plains toward the sea,
Bearing rich products of the soil
In undisturbed security;
And the great chain of inland seas,
Teeming with commerce and with trade—
The land is proud of her true sons,
And the real progress they have made.

Thy mountains tower to the skies,
And free, wild winds roam o’er thy plains;
And he who seeks this great, broad land
His freedom and a good home gains.
Thy mountain sides and wide foothills
Yield up rich ores of every name;
Exhaustless is thy hidden store,
Millions of wealth the seekers gain.

The matchless fisheries on our coasts,
Our seas and rivers, lakes and streams,
Assure to all a rich reward—
They so plenteously do teem.
Our railroads span the continent,
A vast expanse from shore to shore;
From north to south, from east to west,
They stretch this grand Dominion o’er.

A system of canals have we
Unequalled—search the world so wide—
Connecting all our waterways
By lake and stream to ocean’s side.
They come and go, the white-winged ships,
Bearing rich burdens to and fro;
We have enough, aye and to spare;
Our hearts with gratitude do glow.

Our kine are on a thousand hills;
Our wheat and corn lands, rich and rare,
Yield golden grain abundantly;
With the whole world do we compare.
The luscious grape here is produced,
The vines are purple with its glow;
The apple, peach, and pear, and plum,
In plenty and perfection grow.

Invigorating our atmosphere—
With skies of the intensest blue—
Producing an indomitable race,
With brave, true hearts to dare and do.
Here woman is as beautiful
As e’er this great wide world hath seen,
And in her dear Canadian home
She reigns an honored queen.

Our famous schools dot o’er the land,
Free as the winds that roam our plains,
And ignorance doth flee away;
Happily, intelligence reigns.
Noble colleges and institutes
Throughout this goodly land abound;
Within the easy reach of all
Is education to be found.

Thus blest, the Canadian lifts his head,
And all things dares in manly pride,
For man to man, the wide world o’er,
He’s equal, proved and tried.
Remember it, doubting cynic,
History proves his sterling worth,
And in arms he is co-equal
With the bravest ones of earth.

And in the world’s wide, busy marts,
In science, trade, and cultured art,
In the front rank he e’er is found,
Bearing no menial second part.
Contending with the bravest there,
He holds the fierce, disputed way—
Persistence and efficiency
Are sure to win the sternest day.

Religious tolerance have we,
A people chaste by Christian love;
Thousands of church-spires point the way
To the celestial courts above.
Thus blest, we dwell in freedom’s light,
Defenders of our country’s cause,
Loving our dear Canadian homes,
Respecting and keeping her laws.

These free and fair Canadian homes
Acadia’s vales do beautify;
Her cities gleam like diadems,
Her towers mount upward to the sky.
And where New Brunswick lifts her head
In vigorous, friendly rivalry,
They shine like jewels in a crown,
An anchor to our unity.

Prince Edward’s Island by the sea
Is safely, sternly girded round,
Taught by all nature to be free;
Influenced by her voice profound
They build, secure in freedom’s light,
A fabric safe, enduring, grand,
Proud of their dear island home,
And of this fair Dominion land.

Our provinces beside the sea
Send out their ships to every land;
Alert to every enterprise,
The world’s esteem they do command.
Aye, they are known on every sea;
In every clime, and isle remote,
The Maple Leaf, our emblem dear,
Protectingly o’er them doth float.

Quebec! Quebec! thou dowered queen
Of beauty! for thee nature smiles;
A vista wide of hill and vale,
A river with a thousand isles,
Above whose calm, majestic breast
Frowns an impregnable citadel,
A safeguard to our entrance-gate,
Where Wolfe and Montcalm fearless fell.

Historic and heroic days
Those stern defiant cliffs have known,
The thunder of the battle strife,
Wild cheer, defeat, and dying moan.
Beautiful and historic stream,
Flow on, flow on, toward the sea—
The outlet to our wide domain—
Flow on in calm tranquillity!

Heroes of old ascended thee,
Brave men that would not be denied;
They pierced the wilds beyond the flood,
And death and danger they defied.
From Saguenay to Ottawa,
Across the blue Laurentian hills,
Are homes of the French habitant,
And love for thee his warm heart thrills.

With habits all so queer and quaint,
Their social life we plainly trace;
E’er faithful to their usages,
A happy and contented race.
And they have stood by Britain’s side
When war was rife on every hand—
De Salaberry at Chateauguay
Dealt a good blow for this fair land.

Ontario speaketh to our heart—
More blest, and more diversified
Are the rich blessings of her soil—
We greet her e’er with love and pride.
Numerous cities dot her o’er,
Hamlets and town by hundreds rise,
A vigorous and enduring growth,
Throbbing with trade and enterprise.

Pastoral scenes so fair and sweet
Meet the glad, enraptured gaze;
By verdured hill and lovely vale,
And a thousand broad highways,
By lake and stream and riverside,
The children’s laugh and mothers’ song
Float out along the summer air,—
A busy, bright, and happy throng.

O happy homes and loving hearts,
By rural scenes, or city’s ways!
Pinched not by poverty and wrong,
Blest in the fulness of your days!
The busy days pass swiftly by,
The evening brings good cheer along;
Canadian homes are bright and gay,
And purified by love and song.

Manitoba bursts on our view,
The prairies stretching far away,
Where thousands make their happy homes,
Blessing the auspicious day
They sought and found this “great lone land.”
And still they come from every shore,
Seeking out free Canadian homes,—
And there is room for millions more.

Here towns are rising everywhere,
A vigorous growth on every hand;
Industry’s ceaseless, cheerful din
Is heard throughout this goodly land.
Then, Manitobans, thrice three cheers
Ring out! ring out, in swelling tones,
A shout for this Dominion wide,
And for these new Canadian homes!

The prairie province opes the way
To these far vast and fertile plains;
The wheatlands of the world lie here—
This Canada to all proclaims.
And on and on we wend our way,
O’er areas vast our steps are drawn;
We flit by hill and lake and stream,
Beyond the great Saskatchewan.

We gain Alberta’s grazing lands,
Lovely with vales and streams and hills—
And countless kine are herded here.
Stretching away to the foothills
Are undulations, emerald sweeps
Of sunny plains in beauty drest,
With mountains towering to view—
This is Canada’s “great wild west.”

We pierce the Rockies in our flight;
The steely way is swift and sure,
Our land’s necessity and pride,
Long as our union shall endure.
But on and on we safely glide,
By mountains vast and stern and hoary;
Our pen but faintly can portray
The scenes of panoramic glory.

Here lovely valleys meet the eye,
All rife with summer’s winsome gladness;
The summits of those gray cold peaks
Are wrapt in winter’s sternest sadness,
Defying the elements’ rage
Through mystic and untold ages.
God’s hand hath builded them in might
To commemorate His pages.

Below is verdant leaf and flower,
Flora and fauna everywhere;
The peaks are wrapt in perpetual snow
And lit by the sun’s fierce glare.
Below is the sigh of soft winds
And the ripple of cooling streams;
Aloft is the bitterest air,
Where the frost eternally gleams.

The sides of the mountains ever
Are great waves of emerald green;
While the streams, from summits falling
White as snow, are foaming between;
The cedar and pine trees ever
Tossing aloft their fronded plumes,
Where the winds forever whisper
Nature’s subtle and mournful runes.

And through and beyond the Selkirks,
Down the Fraser we calmly glide—
All hail, fair British Columbia,
Thou rich gem by the ocean’s side!
Lovely land of mountain and stream,
We greet thee with bosom aflame;
A crown of laurel awaits thee,
We sing of thy greatness and fame.

The fleets of the world come to thee;
Thy cities are growing apace;
Thou art vigorously gaining,
And everywhere we may trace
Prosperity and refinement
In those far west Canadian homes;
The field and the mine contribute,
And we hail thee in heartiest tones.

Out o’er a measure of ocean,
Of ripple and bright sunny smile,
The sea accords us a welcome
To Vancouver’s fair sea-girt isle—
Last link in the chain of our union,
A bright gem in the Western sea,
Imbued with loyal devotion,
Prosperous and happy and free.

We breathe the ozone of ocean,
Where our mammoth ships sail away
To the land of the Celestials,
And the Japs, at the break of day.
And southward unto Australia,
And the distant isles of the sea,
Our commerce is fast extending,
Reaching out vigorously.

Northward, by Behring and Polar seas,
E’er fearlessly our good ships go,
Undeterred by storms of the deep,
Or perpetual frost and snow;
Seeking and finding seal and whale,
Faithful hearts that know no fear,
Venturing all in the enterprise
For their home and loved ones dear.

Returning by our “golden north,”
Penetrating the Arctic zone,
Bordering on the frozen deep,
All so desolate and so lone;
Flitting by Great Slave and Bear Lakes,
“The fur country,” winning our way
By Rupert’s Land, lonesome and strange,
Leading downward by Hudson Bay.

Gaining the stormy Atlantic,
And wafted, by headland and shore,
Past the homes of our brave fishers
On e’er desolate Labrador,
Thus we have circled the Dominion,
A vast and wonderful domain;
Exhaustless in her resources,
The world shall yet ring with her fame.

Then up in your might, Canadians!
No matter what your creed may be,
And stand for country and the right,
E’er steadfast in our unity.
The half a continent is ours,
Then let our hearts be all aflame;
The field ’s sufficient for us all,
Where all may win both wealth and fame.

We love this fair Canadian land,
O’erstrewn with mountain, plain and lake;
And we would even dare to die
For our dear homes and country’s sake.
Remember it? Aye, remember—
They burn within our thoughts to-day—
Queenston Heights, famed Lundy’s Lane,
Stony Creek, Quebec, Chateauguay.

There, side by side with the regulars,
Our fathers faced the invading foe,
And swept them from our sacred shores
By stern-delivered blow on blow.
And should they dare to come again
Where the old flag in freedom waves,
We’ll meet them firm, unyielding still,
And strew these peaceful shores with graves.

Hurrah! hurrah for Canada!
For the land that is great and free;
“The flag that’s braved a thousand years,”
Ever that grand old flag for me.
Touch not its daring crimson folds—
It bears no cringing coward stain;
No traitor hand shall pull it down,
Nor mar its glorious fame.

It floats to-day o’er every sea;
In every clime, in every zone,
That daring flag defiantly
Is to the free wild winds out-thrown.
The sun may rise and set again,
But not on Britain’s grand domain—
The Empire dots the wide world o’er,
And Britain’s heart is all aflame.

Hurrah! hurrah for Canada!
And the Empire that rules the sea!
In union with the Motherland
We are ever safe and free.
Thus, moving on from year to year,
All time shall sing our brave story—
A united empire rolling on
To an immortal glory.

THINK OF ME.

List when the wind in summertime is sighing,
And a wealth of verdant bloom is on the lea;
Seek the path our feet together used to wander,
And think of me.

Watch when the sunset’s tender glow of evening
Fades into twilight’s dreamy ecstasy,
And thy soul is soothed by nature’s subtle fulness,
And think of me.

And when the shadowy arms of night enfoldeth
The hills, and darken o’er the throbbing sea;
Steal tenderly out beneath the stars’ pale beaming,
And think of me.

Go when the autumn leaves are sadly falling,
And the melancholy winds appeal to thee,
And stillness broods where grass and flowers are dying,
And think of me.

And when thy soul to music’s touch is thrilling,
And thy voice repeats in tenderest melody
The songs we loved when you and I were dreaming,
And think of me.

Weep when the dreary autumn rain is falling,
And sobbing winds are strewing o’er the lea
A wealth of golden leaves and pale dead flowers,
And think of me.

And when thy day of life is slowly waning
Into the mystic light of the eternity,
Call back the dreamy years of life’s glad morning,
And think of me.

DULAC DES ORMEAUX; OR, THE THERMOPYLÆ OF CANADA.

Destruction menaced fair Mount Royal,
And the bravest cheek grew pale
When from the shadowy, awesome forest
Came the blood-curdling tale
That the unsparing, ferocious Iroquois
Would encompass them once more;
Twelve hundred plumed and painted warriors
Would in fury on them pour.

Palisaded around and bastioned,
But war-worn and wasted so,
With the pale shadow of doom upon them,
How shall they foil the dread foe?
Often, when life and its cares seem darkest,
Doth aid and guidance appear,
And the storm and the threatened danger
On the horizon disappear.

Thus saved was the lovely Mount Royal
By as heroic a deed
As e’er blazon’d the page of history;
And it came in their sore need.
Noble, self-sacrificing des Ormeaux,
And sixteen fair youths so brave,
Resolved on a desperate rescue,
Their homes and country to save.

Aye, resolved though to a man they perish,
The rescue should be complete;
And prepared for the awful issue—
’Twas death, but never defeat.
Making their wills, and solemn confession,
In war’s panoply arrayed
They received the holy sacrament,
And solemnly knelt and prayed.

And bidding their well-beloved friends farewell,
As men who to death march away—
(Aye, and so were they, for all, all were slain
In the merciless affray).
And stemming the current of swift St. Anne,
They fearlessly launch away
O’er the sparkling Lake of Two Mountains,
Onward, by night and by day.

And by the pass of the Long Sault Rapid,
In a redoubt deserted, old—
A mere breastwork of logs and abatis,
Covered by moss and mould—
There, with forty Hurons and Algonquins,
They took their intrepid stand,
And waited the approach of the Iroquois,
Who were very near at hand.

The French and their red allies strengthened
Their frail post with earth and sod,
Leaving twenty loopholes for musketoons;
And, commending all to God,
They took post, prepared now and watchful
Under the All-seeing Eye,
To fight heroically for their homes,
And, if need, for them to die.

“Hist! hist!” Dulac des Ormeaux whispered,
“Make ready the musketoons;
Hear the signal hoot of the boding owl,
And the cry of lonely loons!
’Tis the stealthy approach of the Iroquois,
Signaling their reptile advance;
Mon braves, let’s teach them what Frenchmen can do
For love and glory of France!

“Let them come, let them come, now, very near,
Then level the musketoons;
Answer thus the hoot of the boding owl,
And the cry of the lonely loons!
Hand to hand, use the halberd, sword and lance,
Make these reptiles bite the grass,
And strike as the Spartans did of old,
When Leonidas kept the pass!

“See! through the dim and shadowy forests,
They like deadly serpents creep—
Mark the cruel light in their devilish eyes,
As our frail defence they sweep!
Steady, brothers; comrades, aim low and sure,
Let every good missile tell!
Rain sure on the malignant Iroquois
A consuming fire of hell!”

And they opened then with crash and flame,
And wild, savage cries of pain
Pierced through the roar of the musketoons;
Swift again, and yet again,
Sure volleys burst, hurling death, dismay,
The old gray redoubt around,
And the withering fire from that brave band
Struck many a red fiend down.

For five long days the Iroquois
Swarmed around that frail redoubt,
Repulsed again, aye, and yet again.
Worn by hunger, thirst and doubt,
And want of sleep, the Frenchmen prayed,
And fought with valiant might
Through long, frightful days of carnage
And the horrors of the night.

Iroquois reinforcements now arrived
And the Hurons, in dismay
At the dreadful, inevitable result,
In desertion fled away.
For three days longer seven hundred foes
Beleaguered that frail redoubt,
Defied by the score of dauntless youths,
Still barring the red fiends out

By a ceaseless fire of the musketoons;
Keeping their post night and day
With the unyielding courage of despair,
Holding the red scourge at bay.
And, reeling in uttermost weariness,
Realizing their doom is sealed,
They can but die in the unequal strife,
But must not—no, must not yield!

The Iroquois, covered by wooden shields,
Rushed up to the palisades;
Up swift from the river’s concealing banks,
And sheltering forest glades.
Crouching below the fire of musketoons,
They furiously cut away
Post after post of the frail palisades
That held them so long at bay.

Firing through the loops on their pent-up foes,
Tearing a breach in the walls,
They swarm within with ferocious joy;
But many a red fiend falls
By desperate sweep of the Frenchmen’s steel,
Deliv’ring lightning blows;
Asking no quarter, and receiving none,
From cruel, insatiate foes.

Thus selling their lives in a noble cause,
Not one of the French are spared;
But hundreds of unsparing Iroquois
Their gory death-bed shared.
Thus checked was the advance of the Iroquois
And Canada was saved
By as heroic an act of devotion
As war’s annals ever gave.

And the defence of the Long Sault passage
Shall nevermore fade away;
All time shall honor the heroic defence—
Canada’s Thermopylæ!
Pause, Canadians! pause by this spot—
Seek the Long Sault’s rapid flow—
Call back the famed scene enacted here
Two hundred long years ago.