Memories of Canada and Scotland, Speeches and Verses | Page 6

thee
Yet with courage high,
So that,
though my arms can bind thee,
Victor thou, not I.
"Hark! to-morrow, conquering, slay me,
Blest shall be thy toil:

After wrestling, strip me, lay me
Sleeping in the soil.
"Visit oft the place; above me
Root out weeds and grass;
Fast no
more; obeying, love me;
Watch what comes to pass."
Waiting through the long day dreary,
Still he hungers on;
Once
more wrestling, weak and weary,
Still the fight is won.
Stripped of robes and golden feather,
Buried lies the guest:

Summer's wonder-working weather
Warms his place of rest.
Ever his commands fulfilling,
Mourns his victor friend,
Fearing,

with a heart unwilling,
To have known the end.
No! upon the dark mould fallow
Shine bright blades of green;

Rising, spreading, plumes of yellow
O'er their sheaves are seen.
Higher than a mortal's stature
Soars the corn in pride;
Seeing it, he
knows that Nature
There stands deified.
"'Tis my friend," he cries, "the guerdon
Fast and prayer have won;

Want is past, and hunger's burden
Soon shall torture none."
THE ISLES OF HURON
Bright are the countless isles which crest
With waving woods wide
Huron's breast,--
Her countless isles, that love too well
The crystal
waters whence they rise,
Far from her azure depths to swell,
Or
wanton with the wooing skies;
Nor, jealous, soar to keep the Day
From laughing in each rippling bay,

But floating on the flood they love,
Soft whispering, kiss her breast,
and seek
No passions of the air above,
No fires that burn the
thunder-peak.
Algoma o'er Ontario throws
Fair forest heights and mountain snows;

Strong Erie shakes the orchard plain
At great Niagara's defiles,

And river-gods o'er Lawrence reign,
But Love is king in Huron's
isles.
THE MYSTIC ISLE OF THE "LAND OF THE NORTH WIND."
(KEEWATIN.)
A land untamed, whose myriad isles
Are set in branching lakes that
vein
Illimitable silent woods,
Voiceful in Fall, when their defiles,

Rich with the birch's golden rain,
See winging past the wildfowl
broods.

Blue channels seem its dented rocks,
So steeply smoothed, but
crusted o'er
With rounded mosses, green and grey,
That oft a
Southern coral mocks
Upon this Northern fir-clad shore,
'Neath
tufted copse on cape and bay.
Here sunshine from serener skies

Than Europe's ocean-islands know
Ripens the berry for the bear,

And pierces where the beaver plies
His water-forestry, or slow
The
moose seeks out a breezy lair.
The blaze scarce spangles bush or ferns,
But lights the white pine's
velvet fringe
And its dark Norway sister's boughs;
At eve between
their shadows burns
The lake, where shafts of crimson tinge
The
savage war-flotilla's prows.
Far circling round, these seem to shun
An isle more fair than all
beside,
As if some lurking foe were there,
Although upon its
heights the sun
Shines glorious, and its forest pride
Is fanned by
summer's joyous air.
For 'mid these isles is one of fear,
And none may ever breathe its
name.
There the Great Spirit loves to be;
Its haunted groves and
waters clear
Are homes of thunder and of flame;
All pass it silently
and flee,
Save they who potent magic learn,
Who lonely in that dreaded fane

Resist nine days the awful powers:
And, fasting, each through pain
may earn
The knowledge daring mortals gain,
If life survive those
secret hours!
WESTWARD HO!
Away to the west! Westward ho! Westward ho!
Where over the
prairies the summer winds blow!
Why known to so few were its rivers and plains,
Where rustle so tall
in their ripeness the grains?
The bison and Red-men alone cared to

roam
O'er realms that to millions must soon give a home;
The vast
fertile levels Old Time loved to reap
The haymaker's song hath
awakened from sleep.
Away to the West! Westward ho! Westward ho!
Why waited we
fearing to plant and to sow?
Not ours was the waiting! By God was ordained
The hour when the
ocean's grey steeds were up-reined,
And green marshes rose, and the
bittern's abode
Became the Lone Land where the wild hunter strode,

And soils with grass harvests grew rich, and the clime
For us was
prepared in the fulness of Time!
Away to the West! Westward ho! Westward ho!
For us 'twas
prepared long ago, long ago!
There came from the Old World at last
o'er the sea,
The bravest and best to this land of the free;
And, leal
to their flag, won the fruits of the earth
By might that has given new
nations a birth,
But found in our North-land a bride to be known

More worthy than all of the love of the throne.
Away to the West!
Westward ho! Westward ho!
God's hand is our guide; 'tis His will
that we go!
To lands yet more happy than Europe's, for here
We mould the young
nation for Freedom to rear.
Full strongly we build, and have nought
to pull down,
For, true to ourselves, we are true to the Crown;
The
will of the people its honour shows forth,
As pole-star, whose
radiance points steadfastly north.
Away to the West! Westward ho! Westward ho!
Where rooted in
Freedom shall Liberty grow!
Right good is the loam that for five score of days
Its rolling lands
show, or its plains' scented ways:
Nor used is the pick, if the earth has
concealed
The waters it keeps for the house and the field;
The
spade finds enough, until burst on