THE CONFUSED DAWN

WHAT are the Vision and the Cry

That haunt the new Canadian soul? Dim grandeur spreads we know not why O'er mountain, forest, tree and knoll, And murmurs indistinctly fly. Some magic moment sure is nigh. O Seer, the curtain roll!

The Vision, mortal, it is this:

Dead mountain, forest, knoll and tree,

Awaken all endued with bliss,

A native land - O think! to be Thy native land! and, ne'er amiss, Its smile shall like a lover's kiss

From henceforth seem to thee.

The Cry thou couldst not understand, Which runs through that new realm of light,

From Breton's to Vancouver's strand

O'er many a lovely landscape bright,
It is their waking utterance grand,
The great refrain "A Native Land!"
Thine be the ear, the sight.

PRÆTERITA EX INSTANTIBUS

THE BATTLE OF LA PRAIRIE

1691

THAT was a brave old epoch,

Our age of chivalry,

When the Briton met the French

man

At the fight of La Prairie ; And the manhood of New England, And the Netherlanders true

And Mohawks sworn, gave battle To the Bourbon's lilied blue.

That was a brave old governor
Who gathered his array,

And stood to meet, he knew not what,
On that alarming day.

Eight hundred, amid rumors vast

That filled the wild wood's gloom, With all New England's flower of youth,

Fierce for New France's doom.

And the brave old half five hundred !
Theirs should in truth be fame ;
Borne down the savage Richelieu,
On what emprise they came!
Your hearts are great enough, O few:
Only your numbers fail,

New France asks more for conquerors All glorious though your tale.

It was a brave old battle

That surged around the fort, When D'Hosta fell in charging, And 't was deadly strife and short; When in the very quarters

They contested face and hand, And many a goodly fellow

Crimsoned yon La Prairie sand.

And those were brave old orders

The colonel gave to meet That forest force with trees entrenched Opposing the retreat :

"De Callière's strength's behind us,

And in front your Richelieu;
We must go straightforth at them;
There is nothing else to do."

MONTREAL

REIGN on, majestic Ville Marie !
Spread wide thine ample robes of state;
The heralds cry that thou art great,
And proud are thy young sons of thee.
Mistress of half a continent,

Thou risest from thy girlhood's rest; We see thee conscious heave thy breast And feel thy rank and thy descent.

Sprung of the saint and chevalier !

And with the Scarlet Tunic wed! Mount Royal's crown upon thy head, And, past thy footstool, broad and clear St. Lawrence sweeping to the sea; Reign on, majestic Ville Marie !

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

How long the ignoble sloth, how long The trust in greatness not thine own? Surely the lion's brood is strong

To front the world alone!

How long the indolence, ere thou dare

Achieve thy destiny, seize thy fame; Ere our proud eyes behold thee bear

A nation's franchise, nation's name?

The Saxon force, the Celtic fire,

These are thy manhood's heritage ! Why rest with babes and slaves? Seek higher

The place of race and age.

I see to every wind unfurled

The flag that bears the Maple-Wreath; Thy swift keels furrow round the world Its blood-red folds beneath;

Thy swift keels cleave the furthest seas;
Thy white sails swell with alien gales ;

To stream on each remotest breeze
The black smoke of thy pipes exhales.

By fragrances accredited, and dreams.

Many their speeding heralds, whose light feet

Make pause at wayside brooks, and fords of streams,

Leaving transfigured by an effluence fleet

Those wayfarers they meet.

No wind from out the solemn wells of night But hath its burden of strange messages, Tormenting for interpreter; nor less The wizard light

That steals from noon-stilled waters, woven in shade,