What profit now that we have bound
The whole round world with nets of gold,
If hidden in our heart is found

The care that groweth never old?

What profit that our galleys ride,
Pine-forest like, on every main ?
Ruin and wreck are at our side,

Grim warders of the House of Pain.

Where are the brave, the strong, the fleet?
Where is our English chivalry?
Wild grasses are their burial sheet,
And sobbing waves their threnody.

O loved ones lying far away,

What word of love can dead lips send? O wasted dust! O senseless clay !

Is this the end? is this the end?

Peace, peace! we wrong the noble dead
To vex their solemn slumber so;

Though childless, and with thorn-crown'd head,
Up the steep road must England go,

Yet when this fiery web is spun,

Her watchmen shall descry from far

The young Republic like a sun

Rise from these crimson seas of war.

OSCAR WILDE.

TO ENGLAND

Now England lessens on my sight;
The bastion'd front of Wales,
Discolor'd and indefinite,

There like a cloud-wreath sails:
A league, and all those thronging hills
Must sink beneath the sea;

But while one touch of Memory thrills
They yet shall stay with me.

I claim no birthright in yon sod,
Though thence my blood and name;

My sires another region trod,
Fought for another fame;

Yet a son's tear this moment wrongs
My eager watching eyes,

Land of the lordliest deeds and songs

Since Greece was great and wise!

Thou hedgerow thing that queen'st the Earth, What magic hast ?- - what art?

A thousand years of work and worth
Are cluster'd at thy heart:

The ghosts of those that made thee free
To throng thy hearth are wont;

And as thy richest reliquary

Thou wear'st thy Abbey's front!
Aye, ere my distance is complete
I see thy heroes come

And crowd yon shadowy mountain seat,
Still guardians of their home;
Thy Drake, thy Nelson, and thy Bruce
Glow out o'er dusky tides;

The rival Roses blend in truce,

And King with Roundhead rides.

And with these phantoms born to last,
A storm of music breaks;

And bards, pavilion'd n the past, -
Each from his tomb awakes!
The ring and glitter of thy swords,
Thy lovers' bloom and breath,
By them transmuted into words,
Redeem the world from death.

My path is West! My heart before
Bounds o'er the dancing wave;
Yet something's left I must deplore
A magic wild and grave:

Though Honor live and Romance dwell

By mine own streams and woods,

Yet not in spire and keep so well
Are built such lofty moods.

England, perchance our love were more
If we were match'd and met

In battle squadron on the shore,
Or here on ocean set:

How were all other banners furl'd

If that great duel rose !

For we alone in all the world
Are worthy to be foes.

If we should fail or you should fly,
'T were but a twinn'd disgrace,
For both are bound to bear on high
The laurels of one race:

No fear! new blooms shall bud above
Upon the ancient wreath,

For both can gentle be to Love,
And insolent to Death.

Land of the lion-hearted brood,
I breathe a last adieu;

To Her who reigns across the flood
My loyalty is true:

But with my service to her o'er,
Thou, England, own'st the rest,
For I must worship and adore
Whate'er is brave and best.

CHARLES LEONARD MOORE.

CANADA

A CHILD of Nations, giant-limb'd,
Who stand'st among the nations now,
Unheeded, unadored, unhymn'd,
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 unfurl'd

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?

On soft Pacific slopes, - beside

Strange floods that northward rave and fall, —
Where chafes Acadia's chainless tide,
Thy sons await thy call.

They wait; but some in exile, some

With strangers housed, in stranger lands;
And some Canadian lips are dumb
Beneath Egyptian sands.

O mystic Nile! Thy secret yields
Before us; thy most ancient dreams
Are mix'd with far Canadian fields
And murmur of Canadian streams.

But thou, my Country, dream not thou!
Wake, and behold how night is done,
How on thy breast, and o'er thy brow,
Bursts the uprising sun!

CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS.

THE BETTER COUNTRY

BUT where to find that happiest spot below,
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own;
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease.
The naked negro, panting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,
His first, best country ever is at home.

Thus every good his native wilds impart
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart;
And e'en those ills that round his mansion rise
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies.
Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms,
And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms;
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest,
Clings close and closer to the mother's breast,
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar
But bind him to his native mountains more.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH (The Traveller).

MAZZINI

A LIGHT is out in Italy,

A golden tongue of purest flame;
We watch'd it burning, long and lone,
And every watcher knew its name,

And knew from whence its fervor came :
That one rare light of Italy,

Which put self-seeking souls to shame!

This light which burnt for Italy

Through all the blackness of her night,
She doubted, once upon a time,
Because it took away her sight;

She looked and said, "There is no light!

It was thine eyes, poor Italy!

That knew not dark apart from bright.

This flame which burnt for Italy,
It would not let her haters sleep;
They blew at it with angry breath,
And only fed its upward leap,
And only made it hot and deep.
Its burning show'd us Italy,

And all the hopes she had to keep.

This light is out in Italy,

Her eyes shall seek for it in vain!
For her sweet sake it spent itself,

Too early flickering to its wane —
Too long blown over by her pain.
Bow down and weep, O Italy,

Thou canst not kindle it again!

LAURA C. REDDEN SEARING (HOWARD GLYNDON).