Thou had'st thy skilful mariners, who crossed an unknown sea;
Thou had'st thy famous warriors, thy far-brought peasantry
Who cleared the tangled forest shades, and in the greenwood wild
Prepared an exile's home to lodge the mother with the child.
And thou had'st saints, those holy ones who feared nor shame nor loss,
Who o'er their altars raised aloft the standard of the Cross;
Who suffered torture's keenest pangs, whose souls were winged on high
From bloody knife and cruel flame—such lives may never die.

Softly, Oh winds of the south-land! Float over valley and steep; Bathe with your incense of perfume The spot where the martyrs sleep.

Tenderly, winds of the ocean! Rippling the streamlet's bright waves. Pause in your flight o'er the mountains; Fan with your freshness their graves.

And thou! Oh breeze off the pine-lands! Far over the glorious West Sing forth the grandeur of soul-life From groves where the holy rest.

Where Indian Donacona ruled, there ruled the wise Champlain;
Then Commerce, social herald, brought religion in its train;
Whilst high above thy loftiest crag and by the stately tree
There floated proudly on the breeze the gorgeous fleur-de-lis.
And though no more the vine-clad hills should greet the longing eye,
Nor streamlets of the sunny South in joyous strains flash by;
Though never more the worshippers should kneel in ancient fanes,
Yet France as dear, yet faith as bright, might blossom on those plains.

Change copes with time; ills tracked the years; far worse than Indian knife
Came gross misrule and greed of gain, with envious civil strife;
Grim want, foul rapine filled the land and paved the smoother way
For foreign foe and outward wrong, for inward sore decay.
Then followed war with horrors wild, and who a sword could wield
Was summoned to the deadly fray, whilst women tilled the field;
Yet, with a courage native-born within the France of yore,
Thy sons long held a baffled foe from off Canadian shore.

Red glowed the sun of summer morn athwart the shining deep,
All radiant in its still repose, as child in restful sleep;
And as it higher streaked the heavens, and further gilt the wave,
There dawned a sight that chilled stout hearts within those erstwhile brave—
A sight which called the soldier forth to guard his every post,
Which moved the patriot soul to hope, though hope was well-nigh lost;
Had fallen Ticonderoga, Niagara lost the day,
And now the victor's flag streamed out o'er fair St. Lawrence Bay.

A British squadron, fifty sail, with well-trained soldier band,
Led on by Wolfe of martial fame, of skilled and daring hand,
Had anchored on the Orleans coast to watch, if need be wait
Till golden opportunity should crown the course of fate.
'Twas not mere common role of arms, to measure strength for strength,
To storm with shot or fiendish shell, to fight at sabre's length;
'Twas to out-plan the well laid scheme, out-match with matchless skill
The great opposing elements, vast work of zealous will.

So huge the perfect system of well arranged defence,
Small marvel if prompt action waived, subdued of grave suspense;
The city, perched upon her heights, in solemn far retreat.
With thousand willing hearts guardant in fealty at her feet;
Along the river's northern rim, to Montmorency's shore,
Redoubt, earthwork and battery defiant aspect bore;
Whilst at each point of access, for miles and miles around,
Stood youth and age, a patriot guard upon a hallowed ground.

High banks and shallow waters, the warships idle lay;
Discouraged and perplexed the Chief, held thus so far at bay;—
Oh, treacherous shining waters! those frowning crags that lave,
Ye folded in your cold embrace eight hundred of the brave,
The bravest of old England, who, fifty years before
Unfighting met their destiny at threshold of that door
Now barred against the invader; much wonder was it then
Though gravest doubt should dull the mind of England's mightiest men?

Mayhap before their vision loomed those feats of former day
When British fleet, in Phipp's command, besieged that fortress grey;
When messenger with flag of truce, was ushered in blindfold
Before the noble Frontenac, that veteran leal and bold.
No coward blood e'er nursed the life of him, the loyal veined,
Proposals for surrender mean, who scornfully disdained;
"Go, tell your General," he said, proud flashed his wrathful eye,
"That surely by my cannon's mouth, shall be my fit reply."

Oft, over dire extremity, a sudden radiance falls;
Though sealed those portals, bullet-proof those adamantine walls,
Swift, as of lightning's vivid flash, Wolfe's eager eye descried
A site for prowess to effect, though skill and force defied.
Where Mount de Levi sits aloft upon the other shore,
Incessant devastation might bridge the waters o'er;
Might bring to woman's, childhood's ears, sore tidings of dismay,
Might picture scenes would dim the eye, through many a lustrous day.

Loud booms along the glistening wave the din of shot and shell;
The breeze-borne notes resound afar a generous people's knell;
The time-worn soldier stands aghast, religion bends the knee,
And silence sceptres ruined homes, where mirth flowed full and free.
Still, firm within thy battlements, upon thy steadfast throne,
Thou beauteous city of the heights! defeat thou would'st not own;
Abode thy Chieftain by thy side, nor left thy ample shield
At tempter's scheme, or skilled device to war on open field.

Yet courage waned not, yet again were outward posts assailed;
But every effort met rebuff, all stratagem had failed;
Who fell not by the Frenchman's arm to perish in their gore
Were fain to find a sure retreat, from off that hostile shore.
Sick of chagrin a fever laid the English leader low,
Ambition, high resolve retired before a stubborn foe;
Were't not that Townshend's able wit one final scheme revealed
Perchance the maple leaf might grace fair Gallia's ancient shield.

Out over the quiet waters, in sheen of the starry night,
With sword, and gun, and bayonet, equipped for fervent fight.
On, on by the towering headlands, in shade of frowning steep,
Ere flickering day-dreams banished sweet dreams of friendly sleep.
Ere lingering morn had oped its eyes to greet the orient sun,
They moored beneath a rugged cliff, they scaled it one by one.
Up over moss-hid precipice, with tangled growth o'erhead;—
Well was it he who led the van was of the mountain bred.

Up went the hardy Highlanders, with eye and footing clear,
As when, in their own mountain land, they chased the nimble deer.
O'er broken boughs, through network green, the bright-hued tartan wends
In single file, a living streak with darksome foliage blends.
When, hark! midway the sentry's ear had caught the muffled sound;
He halted the approaching step ere paced his further round.
"Qui vive?" he queried; quick response dispelled all fear of wrong;
"La France," came back assuringly; he heard and passed along.

Before the darker hues of night gave place to morning grey,
A force well nigh five thousand strong stood firm in war's array.
They clomb the heights, they chose the ground upon the rearward plain,
Prepared to fight for Britain's might, no worthless prize to gain.
A land of nature's lavish gifts, a store of boundless wealth;
Rare land! where pestilence ne'er stills the bounding pulse of health.
Where, over richly-yielding plains majestic rivers roll;
Where tyranny may forge no chains to bind the freeborn soul.

Though Britain's war-blast sounded forth its warning loud and shrill,
Though Britain's daring rank and file be-crowned the rock bound hill,
Montcalm, undaunted of surprise, with soul to honor dear,
Ne'er faltered in his manly voice, ne'er blanched with heart of fear.
With prompt and steadiest action he ranged his battle plan,
Inspiring with his ardent will the will of lesser man.
Clear ran along the listening lines the order to "Advance,"
And golden eagles waved aloft, and shouts went up for France.

Alas for prudent reckoning! sole valor led the way,
And hasted on to conflict dire, whose only succor lay
In calm, reluctant rallying within their fortress walls,
Till compassed of invading tide, till neared the bugle calls.
Unbroken columns moved ahead; with firm, free step they trod
The plain where many a hero's blood would early damp the sod.
Upon their well matched foe they oped with rain of deadly fire;
The British stirred not from their post, but hailed their presence nigher.

Ho! courage of the mariner who dares the fiercest storm!
Ho! valor of the warrior who fears no hostile form!
Yet braver he who stands erect nor bows the craven head,
Though murderous fire is laying low the living with the dead.
Not theirs to flinch, though comrades fell, theirs only to obey;
Their brave young General had said, and who might say him nay,
As manfully, in face of death, he hasted to and fro;
"Reserve your fire till forty yards divide you from the foe."

See Europe's proudest martial powers with rival flag unfurled;
Intent in blood to seal the fate of this fair Western world.
To plant upon those echoing heights that standard which would gleam
O'er sea-wide lakes, o'er prairie vast, o'er forest, mount and stream.
The ancient feuds, the after-curse of many a needless fray,
The jealousies of race and creed revive their wonted sway,
Impart a zest to willing minds, a force to vigorous hand,
And nerve the soldier's arm to fight for king and fatherland.

On came brave Gallia's war-like sons; shone helm, and sword, and plume;
On like a mountain cataract which rushes to its doom
Of loss amid the foaming surge that sweeps o'er ocean bed;
So more the surge of battle sweep o'er many a noble head.
No further halt! the voice is raised, the expectant order given,
When, loud as if a thunder bolt had rent the vaulted heaven,
Out belched from thousand iron throats a thousand tongues of fire;
Out flashed the British musketry as torch for funeral pyre.

The blow long pending, did its work among the assailing host;
Who stood the shock, through blinding smoke could see that all was lost.
Still Montcalm strove, with voice of cheer, due order to retain;
His veterans, by a small redoubt, he marshalled once again.
But vain! ah vain, his arduous task! the stronghold of Quebec
Was doomed to slip from Gallia's hand;—yet rise from out the wreck
A queenly city on the wave, a beacon on the sea,
Fair monument of Britain's might in Canada the free!

Short space the balance wavered—one fierce and final blow,
And the flower of Europe's chivalry on foreign field lay low.
Ere golden beams of noontide spread their glory o'er the sky,
The plain was sodden, far and near, with streams of crimson dye,
And din of battle slackened, save tread of flying feet—
Pursuers hurrying onward to intercept retreat;
Whilst on the field of carnage, of groans and shattered spear,
The rival Chieftains won their right to grace red glory's bier.

Serene of soul in youth's bright dawn, Wolfe laid him down to die;
From strife profound, from mortal pain, peace gently closed his eye.
Whilst Montcalm, loyal to the core, avowed with parting breath
His greatest guerdon in defeat, to die a soldier's death.
True brotherhood of heroism! in God's eternal laws,
One equal spirit ruled their course, however adverse their cause.
And high on pedestal of Fame, where victors bear the palm,
Beside the British General there stands the brave Montcalm.

Just Spirit! from the empyrean heights, regard this lower clime!
From anthems of eternity, from angel theme sublime
Look down upon those woe-worn lives, replete of misery!
Stretch forth Thine arm to stem the tide of mortal agony!
The groaning years have waited long to hail the reign of peace,
Omnipotence give forth Thy word, bid war and tumult cease!
Then harmony shall tune its chords; for plaintive, low-voiced song
Rejoicings of a ransomed world shall seraph notes prolong.

Since passion waged the bloody deed that slew by Eden's gate,
The earth hath borne its bitter fruit of envy's cruel hate;
Even God in man is crushed beneath insatiate thirst of gain,
A thirst unquenched though streams of blood have purpled earth and main.
Oh rarely beauteous, blooming world! why should the true and brave,
Whilst meaner souls usurp thy joys, claim but in thee a grave!
Thou, Oh Supreme! Whose glory lit confusion's dreary night,
Out cast the chaos of the years, inflood Thy glorious light!

Power Benign! Thy influence shed, the brutal passions tame!
Let pure and holy altar light, from clear cerulean flame,
Beam into dark and vile recess of evil's inmost heart!
Incite the nobler sentiments to act the nobler part!
Then war no more shall devastate the work of toilsome hand,
Nor wailing tones of hunger-pain sigh o'er a fruitful land;
Into Oblivion's direst shades shall wrong and woe be hurled,
And cycles of millennial bliss illume a sinless world.

Dragged up were the ponderous guns, dragged up the slippery hill;—
What task too hard for British hands when backed by British will?
Impelled o'er war-worn field of death, of visage stained and scarred,
Till set against the citadel, a grim, relentless guard.
Out echoes through the silent streets the cannon's dolesome boom,
The famine-struck are fain to feel sure bodings of their doom;—
Four lingering days of torture, when exhausted nature calls
To sheathe the patriot sword and leave the long-loved native halls.

Full tenderly the mellow light of Autumn's tranquil hours
In splendor decked the forest shades and gilt the wayside flowers,
Rose-tinted all the fleecy clouds which flecked the arc of blue,
Reflecting on the sullen wave a brighter, warmer hue.
Yet, in its placid majesty, from out that sky serene,
That Autumn sun looked down upon a sad and bitter scene;
Starvation's wan and wasted cheek, the crushed soul of the brave,
The tomb of those who nobly earned a patriot-soldier's grave.

Lay down thine arms, Oh, hero-heart! thou shamest not thy crest;
They own no coward vassalage who bow at Heaven's behest;
Though from the river and the tree there vanisheth for aye
The ensign which so proudly bore the brunt of many a fray,
Yet honor bideth with thee still, and though thy fleur-de-lis
Is grafted in the English rose, thou bend'st a faithful knee
At thy faith's shrine; thy language lives, nor shall thy glory fade
While snows o'ermantle mountain steep, or zephyrs fan the glade.

Thou, Conqueror! whose ancient flag floats out on every breeze,
Whose power is felt, whose might is owned by nigh and further seas;
To thee is given a wider scope within this sphere of change,
To work out mightier designs upon a vaster range,
Thwart not thy royal prestige, hold not thy royal hand,
But open wider, still more wide, this haven for every land;
This boundless, fair, Canadian land—land of especial grace,
Where freedom yieldeth equal rights to every creed and race.

Still, peerless Queen of peerless land! in nature's choicest zone
Thou sitt'st in regal dignity upon thy rocky throne;
The glorious memories of the past thy future glories greet,
And fadeless laurels wreathe thy brow, as ocean laves thy feet.
Fair home of faithful, loyal hearts! shrine of the mighty dead!
Whose valor rested not till hid within its gory bed;
Right royal sitt'st thou on thy heights, with Empire's flag unfurled,
The brightest gem by sea or plain of all this Western World.