Therefore, in my dumb country’s stead, I come to thee, unheralded, Praying that Time’s peace may be shed Upon thine high, anointed head, --One with the wheat, The mountain pine, the prairie trail, The lakes, the thronging ships thereon, The valley of the blue Saint John, New France--her lilies,--not alone Empress, I bid thee, Hail! _Francis Sherman._ STRINGER CCII CANADA TO ENGLAND Sang one of England in his island home: ‘Her veins are million, but her heart is one;’ And looked from out his wave-bound homeland isle To us who dwell beyond its western sun. And we among the northland plains and lakes, We youthful dwellers on a younger land, Turn eastward to the wide Atlantic waste, And feel the clasp of England’s outstretched hand. For we are they who wandered far from home To swell the glory of an ancient name; Who journeyed seaward on an exile long, When fortune’s twilight to our island came. But every keel that cleaves the midway waste Binds with a silent thread our sea-cleft strands, Till ocean dwindles and the sea-waste shrinks, And England mingles with a hundred lands. And weaving silently all far-off shores A thousand singing wires stretch round the earth, Or sleep still vocal in their ocean depths, Till all lands die to make one glorious birth. So we remote compatriots reply, And feel the world-task only half begun: ‘We are the girders of the ageing earth, Whose veins are million, but whose heart is one.’ _Arthur Stringer._ LIVINGSTON CCIII THE CANADIAN VOLUNTEERS Wide are the plains to the north and the westward; Drear are the skies to the west and the north-- Little they cared, as they snatched up their rifles, And shoulder to shoulder marched gallantly forth. Cold are the plains to the north and the westward, Stretching out far to the grey of the sky-- Little they cared as they marched from the barrack-room, Willing and ready, if need be, to die. Bright was the gleam of the sun on their bayonets; Firm and erect was each man in his place; Steadily, evenly, marched they like veterans; Smiling and fearless was every face; Never a dread of the foe that was waiting them; Never a fear of war’s terrible scenes; ‘Brave as the bravest,’ was stamped on each face of them; Half of them boys not yet out of their teens. Many a woman gazed down at them longingly, Scanning each rank for her boy as it passed; Striving through tears just to catch a last glimpse of him, Knowing that glimpse might, for aye, be the last. Many a maiden’s cheek paled as she looked at them, Seeing the lover from whom she must part; Trying to smile and be brave for the sake of him, Stifling the dread that was breaking her heart.