* * * * * "What Washington starved and strove for In the long winter night; Lincoln wept for, died for,-- Do we doubt if he were right? * * * * * "And who would fear to follow When Nelson sets the course? And who would turn his eyes away From Wellington's white horse? Not one, I warrant, now-- Not one at home to-day; In England? In Scotland? In the Green Isle cross the way? No, nor far away to Westward Beyond the leagues of foam-- They are coming, they are coming, Their feet are turning home. In Canada they're singing, And love lies like a flame About their throats this morning Their sea-winds cannot tame. Africa? Australia? Aye a million throats proclaim That their Motherland is Mother still In something more than name! "It is time! Come, all together, come! Not to the fife's call, not to the drum; Right needs you; Truth claims you-- That's a call indeed One must heed! {280} Not for the weeping (God knows there is weeping!) Not for the horrors That are blotting out the page; Not for our comrades (How many now are sleeping!) Nor for the pity nor the rage, But for the sake of simple goodness And His laws We shall sacrifice our all For the Cause!" One of the most brilliant of Canadian poets is Arthur Stringer, though he is more widely known as a novelist, his _Silver Poppy_ and _Wire Tappers_ having been the successes of their day. Mr. Stringer's poetic work is striking for its variety and range. He has written lyrics and sonnets of almost Keats-like quality, and with as ready facility has written poems in the most modern form of _vers libre_. Then he has turned to the literature of ancient Greece and given us such things of pure beauty in blank verse as _Hephæstus_ and _Sappho in Leucadia_, which do not shrink in comparison with any other modern work of their kind; and again has presented us with such pitilessly realistic and convincing pictures as _The Woman in the Rain_. He has also written verse of the Celtic order, his volume of _Irish Poems_ being a well of true Irish humour and feeling. And yet, withal, Stringer is Canadian in every nerve and fibre of him. Listen to his _Going Home_: "I tread each mountain waste austere, I pass dark pinelands, hill by hill; Each tardy sunrise brings me near, Each lonely sunset nearer still. {281} "Sing low, my heart, of other lands And suns we may have loved, or known: This silent North, it understands, And asks but little of its own! "So where the homeland twilight broods Above the slopes of dusky pine, Teach me your silence, solitudes; Your reticence, grey hills, be mine! "Whether all loveliness it lies, Or but a lone waste scarred and torn, How shall I know? For 'neath these skies And in this valley I was born."