Canada.
By Thomas Frederick Young
Come now, my Muse, do thou inspire my pen,
To sing, with worthy strain, my country's praise,
But not to hide the faults within my ken,
By tricks of art, or studied, verbal maze,
To play on him who reads with careless gaze,
To whom each thought upon a printed page.
Is gospel truth, nor e'er with wile betrays;
From this, oh, steer me clear, nor let the rage
Of prejudic'd and narrow minds, my thoughts engage.
Oh, Canada! the land where first I saw
The blue of heav'n, and bursting light of day,
Where breezes warm and mild, and breezes raw,
First o'er my boyhood's eager face did play,
As o'er the hills I stepp'd my joyful way.
Held by a loving hand, I went along
Thro' shelter'd wood, or by some shaded bay,
And ever, as I went, I sang a song,
With sylvan joy, amid a sylvan throng.
For birds and bees, and e'en the flowers, did sing
Their cheerful songs, with voices pure and sweet;
Their notes were silent, yet those notes did bring
A soothing balm, amid a calm retreat.
Protected from the sun's relentless heat.
Oh, wearied men, could ye but once divine
The healing pow'r of some lone country seat,
You would not strive to drown your care in wine,
Or vainly seek relief, in any lustful line.
But this is not a moralizing lay,
Of Canada I sing, and her alone,
Her varied progress, every passing day,
Her faults, for which, in time, she must atone,
By nature's law, in every clime and zone,
Then what are the peculiar, common claims,
Our country has with nations larger grown,
And the superior things she classes as her own.
First let us take her climate; who will not
Say she is favour'd there o'er other lands?
The winter's cold, indeed, and summer's hot,
But in a robust health the native stands,
So keen to work with brain, or use his hands.
Where, let me ask, between the distant poles
Is there a clime so mod'rate in demands,
Where men are not compell'd to live like moles,
Nor drop with heat on burning, barren, sandy knolls.
A hardy, energetic, toilsome race,
Is raised within this favourable clime,
In physical and mental power apace
With those of any land, and any time,
Save in the golden age, that age of thought sublime;
But, what I mean is this: that her own men
Do act their parts, they reason or they rhyme
Within their bounds, with keen, far-reaching ken,
For those who late have left the axe to wield the pen.
Yes, left the axe, whose skilful, cleaving stroke
Hew'd out a home from 'mid the forest wild,
Where grew the maple and the lofty oak,
Where liv'd the dusky colour'd forest child,
So sternly fierce in war, in peace so mild;
Yes, here the settler met with Nature's force;
Quite unsubdued, she look'd around and smil'd,
And seem'd to view with scorn the white man's course
Of labour slow, but yet of wealth the only source.
But still the patient white man plodded on,
He swung his axe, and drove his horned team;
At times he felt despair, but soon 'twas gone,
And gladsome rays of hope would brightly gleam
To cheer his path, like light on darken'd stream.
Some saw their hopes fulfill'd, some sank to rest
Amid their toil, but, sinking, saw the beam
Of brighter days, to make their children blest.
And give a rich reward to ev'ry earnest guest.
These latter gaz'd on fertile fields, and saw,
The waving grain, where stood the forest tree,
Where prowl'd the bear; or wolf, with hungry maw,
Howl'd in the settlers' ears so dismally,
That children crouch'd near to their mother's knee.
They saw, instead of plain, bark-roof'd abode,
A mansion wide, the scene of youthful glee,
And happy Age, now resting on his road,
To pay the debt, his sinning kind so long hath ow'd.
The organ or piano sounds its tone,
Where late in darkness cried the whip-poor-will,
Or gloomy owl's to whoo! to whoo! alone,
Came from the glen, or darkly wooded hill, -
These sounds, untaught, and unimprov'd in skill.
All round, where'er they look, they see a change,
By rolling lake, by river, mount or rill;
Wherever feet may walk, or eyes may range,
There is a transformation pleasing, new and strange.
Schools, churches, built in costly, solid style,
Proclaim the fact that here a higher life
Is liv'd than that of seeking all the while
For wealth, and pow'r, amid ignoble strife,
Degrading unto husband, son or wife.
The scholar's light, and blest religion's smile
Ennobles, soothes and lends a joy to life -
A pow'r, which counteracts the trickster's wile
And blunts the edge of slander undeserv'd and vile.
From where the fierce Atlantic waters rage,
Unto the mild Pacific's fertile shore,
Small villages to cities rise and wage
A steady war; but not a war of gore -
A friendly rivalry exists, no more,
Save in the far North-West, where savage clan
Ungrateful rise, and make a serious sore,
Whose pains increas'd, as eastward far it ran,
And plac'd the British race beneath the Frenchman's ban.
But quickly, let us hope, the time may come,
When peacefully the British flag shall wave,
And when the rebels' terrorizing drum
Shall be as still as Kiel's rebel grave,
O'er the wide land, whose sides two oceans lave;
When demagogues of party shall retire,
Or curb their selfish zeal, their land to save
From factious feuds and savage rebel fire.
And all that tends to raise the patriot's scorn and ire.
From ocean unto ocean runs a band,
A double band of hard and gleaming steel;
It binds in one this fertile, mighty land,
In bonds which all should recognize and feel,
If anxious to promote their country's weal.
A bond which Nature's sympathetic law
Should fasten on our hearts with solid seal,
Which factious feuds should ne'er asunder draw,
Nor wily traitors cut, by selfish treason's saw.
The strange, stupendous, magic power of steam,
In works, is great as fam'd Aladdin's ring,
It carries men o'er miles of land and stream,
And maketh loom and forge, with labour sing,
And o'er the land, a busy air doth fling.
That fluid, too, that none can well define,
In active life hath wrought a wondrous thing.
It speeds our words with lightning flash or sign,
And maketh glorious light from midnight's darkness shine.
Then to our country's future we may gaze
With gladden'd eyes, and hearts with hope aglow,
That our young country still its head will raise,
And stand 'mid nations, in the foremost row,
High honour'd there, and honour'd not for show -
For solid worth, and lasting pow'r and fame
Will be her portion, if her footsteps go
In duty's path, and if the ruddy flame
Of honor shines within, and keeps away all shame.