Part 3

No braver sons, to bear her banners well, Or laurels fresh to win, fair France might yield; Oswego won, Fort-William Henry theirs,-- And noblest still, Ticonderoga's hard-fought field.

On sweeps that band beneath the rampart wall;-- On through the crowded streets and teeming gates;-- On, where Guienne has watched since morn the lines, Where calm as coming storm the proud invader waits.

IV

Silent and stern, Montcalm rides on that morn, Heedless of warlike shouts, or battle songs; Victor of Carillon! thy palms may fade, And Abraham's plains avenge Fort William Henry's wrongs.

Rank forms on rank, and as the managed hawk Strains on its leash to swoop upon the prey, So curbs the ardent chief his champing steed, And longs to bid his warriors mingle in the fray.

What stays the heart that panted for the strife? Why lags the bold Vaudreuil, when battle calls? Why guard a thousand men our peaceful lines? Why linger Ramesay's guns behind the sheltering walls?

"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 thundering 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.

V

And on that day no nobler stained the sod, Than his, who for his country laid life 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 murmuring low he sighs, "Praise God, in peace I die."

VI

Far rolls the battle's din, and leaves its dead, As when a cyclone through 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 war ships 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.

VII

With bowëd head they lay their Hero down, And pomp and pageant crown the deathless brave;-- Loud salvos sing the soldier's lullaby, And weeping millions bathe with tears his honored 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!

SPORT

Ah! list the music of the whistling wings, As westward sweeps the long-extended corps; Our own Outarde revisits well-known haunts, And the loud quack rings out anew from sea to shore.

The Canvas-back a double zest affords, And yields a dish to "set before a king"; And where the north-shore streams rush to the sea, Here the rare Harlequin shoots past on rapid wing.

To Grondine's flats the Ibis yet returns; The snowy Goose loves well the sedgy shore; Loud booms the Bittern 'midst the clustering reeds, And the famed Heron nests on pine-top as of yore.

If shapely form and splendour charm the eye, The graceful Wood-Duck claims fair beauty's prize; No gorgeous plumes like his adorn the crest; No lovelier shades could feathers yield or sparkling eyes.

The shady copse the wary Woodcock haunts; From Château Richer's swamps the Snipe upsprings; Ontario's fields know well the scurrying Quail, And o'er the glassy lake the Loon's weird laughter rings.

Afar 'midst forest glades, where Red Men lie; On mossy log the Ruffled Grouse strut and drum; The plump Tetrao courts the spruce tree's shade; And spotless Ptarmigan with boreal tempests come.

Resplendent thro' the grove the Turkey roams, And lends a deeper grace to Christmas cheer; Our silvery lakes still claim the graceful Swan; And o'er the uplands shrill the Plover's pipe we hear.

Or come, where far on rolling Western plains, Beneath the brushwood Sagefowl snugly lie; And Prairie Hens rush boldly at the foe, Their cowering brood to shield, as swoops the Falcon by.

A hunter thou? The grim Bear courts thy skill, And fearless roams ere yet he seeks his den; His glossy robes might grace triumphal car,-- His pearly spoils proclaim the rank of dusky men.

The Wolf, still tireless, tracks his victim's trail; The prowling Lynx, like sleuth-hound, wends his way; And by the well-worn path the Carcajou Drops from his hidden perch upon the unwary prey.

Shy Reynard follows where the startled Hare Darts thro' the matted elders like a gleam; And the sleek Otter on his titbits dines, Nor dreads the Hound's loud bark upon his lonely stream.

Far from men's haunts the Beaver builds his dam And ponderous mound, to keep him safe from harm; His larder filled with choicest winter stores,-- Cold winds may bite and blow, his lair is soft and warm.

Thro' rushing chute and pool the Fisher swims; And Mink and Martin sport right merrily; While overhead the angry Squirrel chides, And warns the rude intruder from his nut-stored tree.

And when the maple trees are stripped and bare,-- When land and stream with snow are mantled o'er,-- When light toboggans down the mountains sweep, And the bold skater skims the lake from shore to shore,

Then don thy snowshoes, grasp thy rifle true; The timid Red Deer thro' the forest bounds,-- The wary Caribou rests on the frozen lake, And browse the mighty Moose upon their endless rounds.

These all and more await the hunter's skill; Such trophies well our antlered halls adorn; Their shining coats may win a golden prize, Or keep us snug and warm amid the winter storm.

But yet, possessed of aught that hands could win, Or all that pleasure puts within our ken, We joy to know a nobler gift is ours,-- We own the heaven-sent heritage of freeborn men.

ALICE M. ARDAGH

SIC PASSIM

(THE SAME EVERYWHERE)

I came upon a drawer to-day, Half-filled with closely written scraps; A motley crew, and all, perhaps, But worthy to be cast away

In other eyes, but to my heart Dear indexes of pleasures, pains, Life-revelations, losses, gains, That in my life have borne their part.

Small profit were it to detail! Each fragment paints its little hour, And each and all are fraught with power To tell the same unflattering tale:

Of love, and faithlessness in love; Of pain, and balm in pleasure found; Such things in every life abound, Nor total worthlessness need prove.

The suns that gild my path to-day May pale to stars within the year, What now I lightly hold grow dear, Yet both a natural law obey.

For joys and sorrows rise and set With never-failing eve and morn; Night yields unto another dawn And then we say that we "forget."

O Thou whose passions are divine, Contemn not that Thou didst create! In soul or body, love or hate, We are but what Thou didst design.

Thou mad'st us mortal, and we hate And love as mortals. Grace divine! The earthen vessel and the wine In strength are made proportionate.

Ah, lay them by where they have lain! The years to come shall swell their list, The sun shall rise through sorrow's mist And set in whelming clouds again.

Poor worthless scraps! they have outworn The fickle moods that gave them birth, Yet neither I nor they are worth The critic's undivided scorn.

For as in water, face to face, So is the heart of man to man; By others each himself may scan, Nor dare to claim a higher place.

ISIDORE G. ASCHER

BY THE FIRELIGHT

Cradled within the arms of night, The unquiet day is lulled asleep The weary hours have taken flight, Leaving their shadows long and deep, That spread upon the earth below, Soft as the falling of the snow.

Betwixt the glimmer and the gloom, The twilight beameth tenderly In dim rays o'er the dusky room, Like hope of immortality, That o'er the earth-bound spirit falls, And shineth through life's prison walls.

Our converse is of earthly things: Our little world of joys is pure, And silvery laughter peals and rings, Like flute-sounds in an overture, Swelling with sudden rise aloft, Or toning to a cadence soft.

The firelight dances on the walls, In wavering streams of ruby light; A human ray that gladly falls, Cheering the mellow hours of night, While even hurrying Time does seem To linger by the lambent gleam!

No shadow in our dear retreat, Nor heart-glooms, like the night-mists rise; Love speaketh from the laughter sweet, Love danceth in the sparkling eyes! While in the radiance on the wall, God's love, divine, seems over all!

The wrathful storm tramps wildly by The desert waste of snows abroad; The keen winds rush with sullen cry, Like shrieks of horror on the road: Within, the lustre of a light, Like Israel's pillar-flame at night!

No mystic seer looks upward now In stars to read his destiny: We watch the flame's pure vestal glow Shine like a beacon, steadfastly, And read our fireside cheering lore Imaged in light upon the floor.

SAMUEL MATHEWSON BAYLIS

IN MATABELE LAND

"Saddle and mount and away!"--loud the bugles in Durban are pealing: Carbine and cartridge and girth-buckle, look to it, troopers, and ride! Ride for your lives and for England! Ride in your hot saddles reeling! Red in the blaze of their homesteads, the trail in your kin's blood is dyed. Up! who be men, and no other--rank, title, or no name, what matter? Brood of the lion-cub litter, your birthmark's your passport to-day. Hard is the ride, and the fight ere they break for their coverts and scatter: Spring to the bugle's quick challenge, then, saddle and mount, and away!

"Find them and fight them and stand!" down the line ran the captain's curt orders-- Hot as the mission's red embers, they burned to the hearts of the men. Swift o'er the track's desolation, tho' peril each foot of it borders, On thro' the assegais' hurtling and make for the jungle-king's den! There, where the waggons are creaking, with ill-gotten booty encumbered, Rush the Zareba! It weakens--it breaks! but to close as the sand Follows the swirl of the tide-beat--a handful by thousands outnumbered!-- England shall hear that we failed not to find them and fight them and stand.

Stand for the Queen! Ay, God save her! and save us, for sure there's no other; Trapped, with no chance for our lives, let the black devils see we can die. Scrawl them a line or a letter--sweetheart, wife, sister or mother-- Quick, for their bullets fly faster; a handclasp--"old fellow--goodbye!" Round up the horses and shoot them--close up the dead comrade's places-- Pray if you can, but shoot steady--the last cartridge gone!--all is still, Save for the yells of the victors, that hush as they see the white faces Kindle when comes the last order: "Men! hats off, God save!"--Ay, He will.

THE COUREUR-DE-BOIS.

In the glimmering light of the Old Régime A figure appears like the flushing gleam Of sunlight reflected from sparkling stream, Or jewel without a flaw. Flashing and fading but leaving a trace In story and song of a hardy race, Finely fashioned in form and face-- The Old Coureur-de-Bois.

No loiterer he 'neath the sheltering wing Of ladies' bowers where gallants sing. Thro' his woodland realm he roved a king! His untamed will his law. From the wily savage he learned his trade Of hunting and wood-craft; of nothing afraid: Bravely battling, bearing his blade As a free Coureur-de Bois.

A brush with the foe, a carouse with a friend, Were equally welcome, and made some amend For the gloom and silence and hardships that tend "To shorten one's life, _ma foi_!" A wife in the hamlet, another he'd take-- Some dusky maid--to his camp by the lake; A rattling, roving, rollicking rake This gay Coureur-de-Bois.

Then peace to his ashes! He bore his part For his country's weal with a brave stout heart A child of nature, untutored in art, In his narrow world he saw But the dawning light of the rising sun O'er an Empire vast his toil had won. For doughty deeds and duty done _Salût!_ Coureur-de-Bois.

JOHN WILSON BENGOUGH

SIR JOHN A. MACDONALD

JUNE 6, 1891

Dead! dead! And now before The threshold of bereavëd Earnscliffe stand, In spirit, all who dwell within our land, From shore to shore!

Before that black-draped gate, Men, women, children mourn the Premier gone, For many loved and worshipped old Sir John, And none could hate.

And he is dead, they say! The words confuse and mock the general ear-- What! can there yet be House and members here, And no John A.?

So long all hearts he swayed, Like merry monarch of some olden time, Whose subjects questioned not his right divine, But just obeyed

His will's e'en faintest breath. We had forgotten, 'midst affairs of State, 'Midst Hansard, Second Readings and Debate, Such things as death!

Swift came the dread eclipse Of faculty, and limb and life at last, Ere to the Judge of all the earth he passed, With silent lips,

But not insensate heart! He was no harsh, self-righteous Pharisee-- The tender Christ compassioned such as he, And took their part.

As for his Statesman-fame, Let History calm his wondrous record read, And write the truth, and give him honest meed Of praise or blame!

RESTITUTION

Enough! the lie is ended. God only owns the land; No parchment deed hath virtue unsigned by His own hand; Out on the bold blasphemers who would eject the Lord, And pauperize His children, and trample on His word!

Behold this glorious temple, with dome of starry sky, And floor of greensward scented, and trees for pillars high; And song of birds for music, and bleat of lambs for prayer, And incense of sweet vapors uprising everywhere.

Behold his table bounteous spread over land and sea, The sure reward of labor, to every mortal free; And hark! through Nature's anthem there rises the refrain, "God owns the world, but giveth it unto the sons of men."

But see, within the temple, as in Solomon's of old, The money-changers haggle, and souls are bought and sold; And that is called an _owner's_ which can only be the Lord's, And Christ is not remembered--nor His whip of knotted cords.

But Christ has not forgotten, and wolfish human greed Shall be driven from our heritage; God's bounties shall be freed; And from out our hoary statutes shall be torn the crime-stained leaves, Which have turned the world, God's Temple, into a den of thieves.

CRAVEN LANGSTROTH BETTS

IN MEMORIAM

Whom would ye choose? for, lo, the chief is dead, Who latest swayed the realm of English hearts; He whose revered and silver-crownëd head Lies peaceful midst the thunder of your marts; Your Alfred of the calm and lofty mien, His fingers clasping Shakespere's Cymbeline.

Buried in the bowels of that ancient crypt, Amidst the dust of your illustrious great, He rests, the gracious-hearted, honey-lipped, Peer of the grandest of your race and state; Yea, prince of more than kingdoms, age or clime-- A monarch whose dead sceptre conquers time!

For, even while the trembling hand of age Dwelt on the strings, no harsh, uncertain sound Smote false your hearts; the venerable Mage, The Master-minstrel all your being found; Revived your souls to the rich bloom of youth, And charmed with music the high paths to truth.

Ah, ye may dew with tears the burial-stone, And strew your tributes o'er his stainless hearse; Voice the far echo of his Godlike tone; Embalm his memory in your fragrant verse; All, all in vain--no Star of Song doth rise Above the grave where your great Laureate lies.

The laurel wreath of Spencer should not grace A front less high than this majestic brow, The stamp imperial graved upon the face, Fervently lighted with the poet's vow; And with the outgrowth of a fertile heart Blooming and fruiting in the close of art.

That hand which _might_ have grasped yon silent lyre, And struck its fateful strings with strenuous might, Joined yester-year the pure-toned English choir, Who wear their amaranths in the halls of light; Ruder the touch, yet from those fingers ran Strains that could rouse or sink the heart of man.

But now, the Arthur of your poet realm, Both Lancelot and Galahad of rhyme, Whom will ye find to wear _his_ wingëd helm Or ride _his_ charger down the lists of time? The new Pendragon--where can such be found? Alas, not one of all your Table Round!

Let none the storied chords of that clear harp Restrike in service dissonant and vain; Ye will but cause the world to mock and carp; Ye will but sound a void of grief and pain; Hang up the shining wires above his head And leave your laureate's wreath upon the dead.

CHAUCER

The heart of Merrie England sang in thee, Dan Chaucer, blithest of the sons of morn! How, from that dim and mellow distance borne, Come floating down thy measures pure and free, Thou prime old minnesinger! Pageantry, And Revel, blowing from his drinking-horn The froth of malt, and Love that dwells forlorn-- Though England perish, these will live in thee!

Thine is the jocund springtime--winsome May, Crowned with her daisies, wooed thee, clerkly wight; The breath of freeland fields is in thy lay, And in thy graver verse thy nation's might; O Pan-pipe, blown at England's break of day, Still echo through her noon thy clear delight!

POPE

Behold the foe of Grub Street's lettered fools, The Richard Crookback of the kings of rhyme, Forging his couplets of heroic chime, And beating all his masters at their rules; With what an arsenal of shining tools He wrought to shape his fanciful sublime, Flouting each proud Mæcenas of the time, And shoving all the dunces from their stools.

And you'd deny him greatness? Would to-day Your acrobatic bards could fill his place! He lacked variety? But who can sway More forceful measures in a narrow place? Yield him, O Fame, brightest three-leaved bay. Mind, manners, men, the Horace of his race!

BLANCHE BISHOP

THE BRIDE O' THE SUN

In a veil of white vapor, hushed stars moving through, She comes, when the tremulous morning is new, The bride o' the sun; Green, green is her robe, tipt with crystalline beads, Where it drips with the dews shaken off as she speeds, The bride o' the sun.

There's a slim virgin moon swaying low at her side, But the frost at her heart is not meet for a bride, The bride o' the sun. There are stars in her train, but they pale to the least, When open the light-shedding doors of the East To the bride o' the sun.

Lo he cometh, the bridegroom, in garments of gold, And his glances are flashing, bright, beauteous, bold, On the bride o' the sun;-- Till her heart it leaps up, like flame unto flame, Unfolding to flower o'er all her fair frame, Sweet bride o' the sun.

O glorious bridal of fire and earth! O ancient of miracles! new as at birth Of the bride o' the sun. All creation doth wear a more rapturous face, For the joy of the earth as she circles thro' space, Ever bride o' the sun.

WINTER FLOWERS

When tree and bush are comfortless, And fields are piteous bare, A garden blooms upon my hearth, And it is summer there.

From the gray log's quiescent length Burst the bright flowers of flame,-- Like the far flashings of the stars, Too rare for earthly name.

Now rosy-hearted, rosy tipt, Their petals softly blow; Now clear as water in the sun, When the blue sky lies below.