Chapter II

"Is there a place, a work, a rank Our Canada is called to fill:-- She has but struggled till she sank Hers is it but to toil and till: No seat among the peoples ours."-- So speaks the Tempter in our bowers. So soft he presses on his bonds:-- But hark! a softer voice responds:

"Behold, Canadians, this your place, Your task, your rank, in earth _and heaven_ To make you an especial race To God and human progress given." Too holy is the task for jeers, Too lofty to permit of fears.

Ignoble is the fear of loss; The call of honour _all_ demands! What thought those generous hearts of dross Who sowed our races in these lands? Who blames the Loyalist of pelf? Champlain, what cared he for himself?

Ignoble is the dread of harm:-- Expurge it for a nobler creed! Until we smile at all alarm Poor will be our Canadian breed. He may not count on victories Who will not die as patriot dies.

Ignoble the consent to take The light opinions of our worth That strangers condescending make Who own not better brains nor birth:-- Children of men who toiled and fought, Build your own fate; respect your lot.

Arise! Live out a larger dream-- Your nation's that ye may be man's: Advance; invent; improve; the gleam Of dawn for all illume your plans! Greece lived! the world requires again The lives of nations and of men!

THE KEERLESS PARD.

No, I'm a disappointed man,
Though I've acted fer the best;
But I tell ye, stranger, what it is--
The Occident's not the West.

Have I got the hang of the dialeck?
Ye're nearer New York ner I
An' ye've seen th' latest litteracher
This lingo's laid-down by.

What is Bret Harte now givin' us?
How's the Colorado tongue?
Bret wuz the pard that run the West
When I wuz East--and young;--

That is to say, three months ago.
But now I must be grey,
Fer I've been out here so long I've lost
The hang o' the Western way.

Way down thar in the State o' Maine,
In mild Skowhegan town,
I pastured as a tenderfoot
An' the clerk o' Storeclothes Brown.

Till I got to readin' _Roarin Camp_
An' about that Truthful James,
Buffalo Bill an' Bloody Gulch,
An' pistol-an'-poker games,

An' the pleasure o' shootin' justices
An' sheriffs deeputies
An' the oncomplainin' public
An' the gineral mob likewise.

Then I--wich my name is Dangerous Jake--
(Leastwise when took that way)
Sloped unappreciative Brown
An' follered the wake o' day.

An' here am I in Bismarck Jug!
Fer an inoffensive spree--
Puttin' some buckshot inter the leg
Of a pagan-tail Chinee.

Wot is the good of our churches
Ef the Mongol's goin' ter rule?
An' how kin ye shoot the redskin
When they're givin' him beef and school?

What are the Rockies comin' too?
Well, _I've_ acted fer the best.
But the only remark I've got to make, is--
The Occident's not the West

THE BATTLE OF LAPRAIRIE. (1691.)

A BALLAD.