CXC

THE CANADIANS ON THE NILE

O, THE East is but West, with the sun a little hotter ;

And the pine becomes a palm, by the dark Egyptian

water:

And the Nile's like many a stream we know, that fills its brimming cup,

We'll think it is the Ottawa, as we track the batteaux up!

Pull, pull, pull as we track the batteaux up! It's easy shooting homeward, when we're at the top!

O, the cedar and the spruce line each dark Canadian river;

But the thirsty date is here, where the sultry sunbeams quiver;

And the mocking mirage spreads its view, afar on either hand;

But strong we bend the sturdy oar, towards the Southern land!

O, we've tracked the Rapids up, and o'er many a portage crossing;

And it's often such we've seen, though so loud the waves are tossing!

Then, it's homeward when the run is o'er! o'er stream, and ocean deep

To bring the memory of the Nile, where the maple shadows sleep!

And it yet may come to pass, that the hearts and hands so ready

May be sought again to help, when some poise is off

the steady!

And the Maple and the Pine be matched, with British Oak the while,

As once beneath Egyptian suns, the Canadians on the Nile!

Pull, pull, pull! as we track the batteaux up! It's easy shooting homeward, when we're at the top!

William Wye Smith.

CXCI

THE DEATH OF WOLFE

'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 thund'ring 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 ranksStill 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.

And on that day no nobler stained the sod,

Than his, who for his country life laid 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 cry.

'Who run?'

gleam,

6

They run; see how they run!'

'The foe.' His eyes flash forth one

Then murm'ring low he sighs, Praise God, in peace I die.'

Far rolls the battle's din, and leaves its dead,
As when a cyclone thro' 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 warships 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.

With bowed head they lay their hero down, And pomp and pageant crown the deathless brave;

Loud salvoes sing the soldier's lullaby,

And weeping millions bathe with tears his honoured 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!

Duncan Anderson.

CXCII

THE LOYALISTS

O YE, who with your blood and sweat
Watered the furrows of this land,-
See where upon a nation's brow,

In honour's front, ye proudly stand

Who for her pride abased your own,
And gladly on her altar laid
All bounty of the outer world,

All memories that your glory made.

And to her service bowed your strength,
Took labour for your shield and crest;
See where upon a nation's brow,

Her diadem ye proudly rest!

Sarah Anne Curzon.

CXCIII

THE WHITETHROAT

SHY bird of the silver arrows of song,
That cleave our Northern air so clear,
Thy notes prolong, prolong,

I listen, I hear

'I love-dear-Canada, Canada, Canada!'

O plumes of the pointed dusky fir,

Screen of a swelling patriot heart,

The copse is all astir

And echoes thy part!..

Now willowy reeds tune their silver flutes

As the noise of the day dies down;

And silence strings her lutes,

The Whitethroat to crown

O bird of the silver arrows of song,
Shy poet of Canada dear,
Thy notes prolong, prolong,

We listen, we hear-
'I-love-dear-Canada,
Canada, Canada!'

Theodore Harding Rand.