End of desire to stray I feel would come
    Though Italy were all fair skies to me,
  Though France’s fields went mad with flowery foam
    And Blanc put on a special majesty,
  Not all could match the growing thought of home
  Nor tempt to exile.  Look I not on Rome—­
    This ancient, modern, mediaeval queen—­
  Yet still sigh westward over hill and dome,
    Imperial ruin and villa’s princely scene
    Lovely with pictured saints and marble gods serene.

REFLECTION.

  Rome, Florence, Venice—­noble, fair and quaint,
    They reign in robes of magic round me here;
  But fading, blotted, dim, a picture faint,
    With spell more silent, only pleads a tear. 
  Plead not!  Thou hast my heart, O picture dim! 
    I see the fields, I see the autumn hand
  Of God upon the maples!  Answer Him
    With weird, translucent glories, ye that stand
  Like spirits in scarlet and in amethyst! 
  I see the sun break over you:  the mist
    On hills that lift from iron bases grand
    Their heads superb!—­the dream, it is my native land.

WILLIAM DOUW SCHUYLER-LIGHTHALL.

* * * * *

CANADA.

  O child of Nations, giant-limbed,
    Who stand’st among the nations now,
  Unheeded, unadored, unhymned,
    With unanointed brow: 

  How long the ignoble sloth, how long
    The trust in greatness not thine own? 
  Surely the lion’s brood is strong
    To front the world alone!

  How long the indolence, ere thou dare
    Achieve thy destiny, seize thy fame;
  Ere our proud eyes behold thee bear
    A nation’s franchise, nation’s name?

  The Saxon force, the Celtic fire,
    These are thy manhood’s heritage! 
  Why rest with babes and slaves?  Seek higher
    The place of race and age.

  I see to every wind unfurled
    The flag that bears the Maple-Wreath;
  Thy swift keels furrow round the world
    Its blood-red folds beneath;

  Thy swift keels cleave the furthest seas;
    Thy white sails swell with alien gales;
  To stream on each remotest breeze
    The black smoke of thy pipes exhales.

  O Falterer, let thy past convince
    Thy future:  all the growth, the gain,
  The fame since Cartier knew thee, since
    Thy shores beheld Champlain!

  Montcalm and Wolfe!  Wolfe and Montcalm! 
    Quebec, thy storied citadel
  Attest in burning song and psalm
    How here thy heroes fell!

  O Thou that bor’st the battle’s brunt
    At Queenstown, and at Lundy’s Lane: 
  On whose scant ranks but iron front
    The battle broke in vain!

  Whose was the danger, whose the day,
    From whose triumphant throats the cheers,
  At Chrysler’s Farm, at Chateauguay,
    Storming like clarion-bursts our ears?