Chapter II: Canto THE SECOND: I

Renowned Quebec, upon its rocky height, Stands frowning o'er St. Lawrence' noble river; Well-nigh impregnable, its chosen site Bespeaks its founder's wisdom, and forever Should be remembered all the toil and pain Endured by him, brave Samuel de Champlain.

II.

Not light the task, nor enviable the lot Of him who thus would plant, on shores unknown, And in a wild and never-trodden spot, A new-born city's first foundation stone. A sturdy courage and a fearless heart Belong to him who plays so bold a part.

III.

Not first to land in Acadie, nor first To sail the great St. Lawrence, brave Champlain Yet dared what none before him ever durst-- To give his life and labour--not for gain To be derived from profitable trade-- Ambition else by hardship had been stayed;

IV.

But, for his king to found a colony, And, for his God to win another land, He suffered pain and hardship patiently; And, with a busy and unflinching hand, He laboured on that wild and rugged shore; Nor ceased to labour till he breathed no more.

V.

He had not thus endured, as he endured, Except his faith had given him new might; Nor had he been to suffering inured, And patient borne, except the holy rite, Each day renewed, had cheered his fainting soul, Enabling him to keep his courage whole.

VI.

Ye, living in your luxury and ease Think not of all your country's fathers bore; And still forget the famine and disease Those pioneers suffered on your shore. Their names are unfamiliar on your tongue, Their deeds but vaguely known, their praise unsung.

VII.

So has it been, and so shall ever be The man who stands to-day a shining light, The hero who commands our fealty, To-morrow, in oblivion's dark night, Will be forgotten, or, on history's page, May flicker dimly in a future age.

VIII.

Think not, ye men who seek to carve your name On monuments of everlasting stone, That ye can thus secure eternal fame. Far greater deeds than yours have others done, And greater far the harvest they have sown, Which now ye reap, while they remain unknown.

IX.

As through the ages, silent and unseen, The tiny corals work beneath the wave And build a reef, which reef had never been Except each coral there had found a grave; So work the heroes of the human race, And in their work-field find a resting place.

X.

How vast the number of the coral shells That form the reef! And yet of these but one Of many thousands ever elsewhere dwells Than on that reef; all hidden and unknown The rest remain, and few indeed are they Which shine as jewels at a later day.

XI.

And thus have lived our heroes in the past: The army of the brave and noble who Have laboured uncomplaining, and at last Have yielded up their lives; but there are few Whose names stand forth, as worth would bid them stand, Revered and honoured in their fatherland.

XII.

But Canada, let not the brave Champlain Be thus in dark oblivion forgot. Grant him the fame he never sought to gain; Pay him the honour that he courted not; And on thine earliest page of history Write large his name, not as a mystery

XIII.

Or name unknown--but tell his deeds abroad, And teach thy children all that he has done Not hard the task, and thou canst well afford To show the gratitude that he has won From thee; and thus thou surely wilt impart A proud ambition in thy children's heart

XIV.

To imitate the man, so true and brave, Who laboured self-denyingly in life, And 'neath the city's walls has found a grave, At rest at last, and free from further strife. Thus, as thy children knowledge of him gain, Their hearts shall burn to emulate Champlain.

XV.

I stand upon the plains of Abraham, And, silent as I stand, a train of thought Comes o'er me, and the spot whereon I am Seems almost holy ground; for here was fought That mighty battle, whose event would show If Canada were British soil or no.

XVI.

Before my eyes a vision rises bright, And, in the vision, I can clearly see The actions re-enacted of that fight; And grand indeed the sight appears to me. Repictured thus, I gaze upon the scene, And meditate again on what has been.

XVII.

Ere yet the light had broken on that morn,[B] Before the sun had shed his rays around, While blackest darkness heralded the dawn, The little fleet had left its anchor-ground; With not a lantern showing light or gleam, It floated silently adown the stream.

XVIII.

Within the flagship, weakened by the pain Of recent fever, Wolfe reclining lay Unfit to bear the war's fatigue and strain, He yet was armed and ready for the fray. Forgetful of _his_ pain and suffering, He thought but of his country and his king.

XIX.

His duty bade him fight, and he would fight; His country bade him win, and he would win If bravery could put the foe to flight. If courage and a sturdy heart within Could win the day, he feared not the event; His men were veterans on victory bent.

XX.

Yet, as he lay upon his couch at rest Among his officers, he seemed to be Prescient of his fate; for he addressed His friends in verses from an Elegy, And to this line a special accent gave: "The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

XXI.

Foreknowledge of his fate perchance impressed This truth upon him. Glory's path would lead Him to the grave that day, and there at rest, No longer pain or glory would he heed. Full well might these appear a mockery To him who soon would meet eternity.[C]

XXII.

And who will blame him if his thought recurred, At such a time, to England and the maid Beloved, to whom he gave his plighted word Ere parting? Who will wonder at the shade Of sorrow darkling on his troubled brow, As he reflects on what may not be now?

XXIII.

A vision bright, of home and happiness, Of calm domestic joy, before him lies. One moment gazes he--his hands hard press His forehead, and the hardy soldier sighs-- One moment only, then he turns away, Prepared to lead his army to the fray.

XXIV.

Below the city, anchored by the shore, The fleet is floating; and in silent speed, The soldiers land, Wolfe leading in the fore. And, if of urging there were any need, His fearless mien and proud determination Would banish every thought of hesitation.

XXV.

But fear is foreign to each noble heart That follows him, and in the breast of none Has doubt or hesitation any part; Let him but lead, and they will follow on. They listen to his orders and obey; He fears not death or danger--why should they?

XXVI.

Above them tow'rs the cliff precipitous, Well-nigh impassable its steep ascent. How hard the task and how laborious To scale the cliff! Yet forth the order went. Then, in the darkness, stealthily they creep, And silently approach the rocky steep.

XXVII.

Like Indians soft stealing on the trail Of hated foes, intent upon surprise, And silent moving lest their project fail, When death in premature detection lies; So noiselessly that army scaled the height, While darkness hid them from the foemen's sight.

XXVIII.

At length they reach the summit unattacked, Then form, and silent march upon the plain. And now they learn the foe has seen their act, For onward towards them comes his shining train. The day has broke, the sun now brightly shines, And each can plainly see the other's lines.

XXIX.

Then from the French battalions comes the fire Of musketry, and bullets hissing loud Pierce through the English ranks, yet but inspire The veterans to vengeance, and their blood Boils in their veins. Yet silently they still March on, awaiting their commander's will.

XXX.

At length is heard the general's command To fire. A fearful volley from their ranks Then belches forth, and, sweeping o'er the land, The bullets carry ruin to the Franks. In deep dismay the Frenchmen hesitate One moment; then, with valour desperate,

XXXI.

They turn again, restrengthened, to the fight. But fruitless all the bravery they show; Repulsed anew, ere long they take to flight, Pursued by English bullets as they go. And from the time the battle first begun, But fifteen minutes passed till it was won.

XXXII.

But deadly was the devastation wrought On either side, and dearly was the day Of glory by the English army bought. Thrice bullet-pierced their young commander lay. He lived to hear the cry of victory, Then yielded up his spirit willingly.

XXXIII.

Good reason had the conquerors to mourn; Yet had the vanquished greater cause than they. The day was lost, and sadly had they borne Their leader from the battle-field away. Beloved Montcalm, the generous and brave, Upon that field had found a bloody grave.

XXXIV.

And what of her who sat in silent grief, And listened vainly for the step of him Whose coming only could afford relief, And stay the tears in which her eyes will swim? Ah! History has nought to say of her, Nor speaks it of the sorrow she must bear.

XXXV.

The full extent of war's resulting curse Is never known: the country's gain or loss Is reckoned by its victory or reverse, The dead are numbered--but the heavy cross Of suffering, which womankind must bear, Is reckoned not among the deeds of war.

XXXVI.

Nor can it be: while war is arbiter Between the nations, private suffering Must count for nought; affection must defer To duty, whatso'er the pain it bring. The soldier must obey the bugle call; The wife must weep, and pray he may not fall.

XXXVII.

While war is arbiter--but must it be Forever arbiter? Will not the day Of lasting peace dawn ever? Will not ye, Ye Christian nations, raise your voice, and stay The march of war throughout the universe; And rid you of its agony and curse?

XXXVIII.

It lies not in your pow'r to order those, The nations still uncivilized, to cease From war, and, if they make themselves your foes, Ye must resist; yet can ye order peace Among yourselves. And, sure, ye Christian lands Would wash the blood of war from off your hands!

XXXIX.

Slow, slow, the march of Christianity, Yet sure--more sure because its march is slow; And settled now in peace and amity Are issues which, but fifty years ago, Had been the cause of bloodshed and of strife, And cost each country many a noble life.

XL.

Then let the infidel or atheist, Or him who doubts if ever God can be, And questions the existence of a Christ, Mark well the fruits of Christianity, And say what other power has ever wrought The good that Christianity has brought

XLI.

No myth or vain delusion can achieve What love of Christ has done; no mockery Can bring the troubled comfort, or relieve The broken heart; nor can idolatry Inspire our hearts with love and charity: These follow only Christianity.

XLII.

I pause before a simple monument, And read inscribed thereon the noble names Montcalm and Wolfe. Their enmity is spent, And each from French and English justly claims An equal reverence. This humble stone Stands emblematic of their union.

XLIII.

And are the nations so united now, In Canada, that nothing comes between To break the bond, or disannul the vow Of friendship and of fealty to our Queen? Do they not rather live each wide apart From other, bound in name but not in heart?

XLIV.

Well nigh a century and thirty years Have run their course since Canada became An English colony; and yet appears, Within her shores, a unity in name, And name alone, between those races who Should live as one, but still exist as two.

XLV.

What boots it that an oath of loyalty To Britain's Queen is taken by the French, If they but wait the opportunity To give that man support who seeks to wrench This vast Dominion from the British Crown, And tear our noble red-cross banner down?

XLVI.

And why call that an English colony In which a foreign tongue predominates? And how will he preserve his loyalty To England, who the name of England hates? Too generous have been your governors, Too lightly exercised their given powers.

XLVII.

Ere this, if England had asserted all The rights that conquest gave, here might have been A colony which we could truly call A British land. Nor should we now have seen, In Canada, two nations side by side Upgrowing, by affection's bond untied.

XLVIII.

"A nation self-divided cannot stand." All history has proved this adage true. And, Canada, if thou would'st be a land Of might and power, thou must surely do As other lands have done; it cannot be That thou wilt else secure prosperity.

XLIX.

Let not incipient rebellion grow To actual revolt, but trample down Its very sign, and with a mighty blow, Crush all who rise disloyal to the Crown. Do this, but this alone will not suffice; A sterner duty yet before thee lies.

L.

Send forth the edict that the English tongue, And it alone, shall be official here, And teach the language everywhere among The French in all the counties far and near. Thus, and thus only, canst thou hope to see Thy future self preserved in unity.

LI.

But what are these to me? A passing thought, An evanescent stirring of the brain, Which, for a time, forgetfulness has brought, And temporary soothing of my pain. But as I turn away, anew I feel The burning sore which time can never heal.

LII.

Apart from her I love I wander here, In thought communing with that absent one; In body distant, though in spirit near, I feel our hearts are in communion. Then, softly murmuring, I breathe this lay To her so near, and yet so far away.

* * * * *

From regions remote my message shall float
On zephyrs across the sea,
And softly thou'lt hear the words in thine ear,
"I love thee, I love but thee."[D]

Though distant I rove, sweet thoughts of my love
Are ever at home with me.
Each day and each hour but strengthen their power;
I love thee, I love but thee.

If sorrow be thine, oh! cease to repine,
For mine thou shalt always be.
Oh! breathe not a sigh, though I am not nigh,
I love thee, I love but thee.

Though oceans divide us and fortune deride us,
No two are more near than we;
Our hearts close are beating in tenderest greeting;
I love thee, I love but thee.

I ask not of Fate a lordly estate,
Or position of high degree;
I ask her alone to grant me my own;
I love thee, I love but thee.