Roughing It in the Bush. Susanna Moodie

       And her love within thy heart,

       Well may'st thou perform thy part,

       And to coming years proclaim

       Thou art worthy of her name.

       Home of the homeless!—friend to all

       Who suffer on this earthly ball!

       On thy bosom sickly care

       Quite forgets her squalid lair;

       Gaunt famine, ghastly poverty

       Before thy gracious aspect fly,

       And hopes long crush'd, grow bright again,

       And, smiling, point to hill and plain.

       By thy winter's stainless snow,

       Starry heavens of purer glow,

       Glorious summers, fervid, bright,

       Basking in one blaze of light;

       By thy fair, salubrious clime;

       By thy scenery sublime;

       By thy mountains, streams, and woods;

       By thy everlasting floods;

       If greatness dwells beneath the skies,

       Thou to greatness shalt arise!

       Nations old, and empires vast,

       From the earth had darkly pass'd

       Ere rose the fair auspicious morn

       When thou, the last, not least, wast born.

       Through the desert solitude

       Of trackless waters, forests rude,

       Thy guardian angel sent a cry

       All jubilant of victory!

       “Joy,” she cried, “to th' untill'd earth,

       Let her joy in a mighty birth—

       Night from the land has pass'd away,

       The desert basks in noon of day.

       Joy, to the sullen wilderness,

       I come, her gloomy shades to bless,

       To bid the bear and wild-cat yield

       Their savage haunts to town and field.

       Joy, to stout hearts and willing hands,

       That win a right to these broad lands,

       And reap the fruit of honest toil,

       Lords of the rich, abundant soil.

       “Joy, to the sons of want, who groan

       In lands that cannot feed their own;

       And seek, in stern, determined mood,

       Homes in the land of lake and wood,

       And leave their hearts' young hopes behind,

       Friends in this distant world to find;

       Led by that God, who from His throne

       Regards the poor man's stifled moan.

       Like one awaken'd from the dead,

       The peasant lifts his drooping head,

       Nerves his strong heart and sunburnt hand,

       To win a potion of the land,

       That glooms before him far and wide

       In frowning woods and surging tide

       No more oppress'd, no more a slave,

       Here freedom dwells beyond the wave.

       “Joy, to those hardy sires who bore

       The day's first heat—their toils are o'er;

       Rude fathers of this rising land,

       Theirs was a mission truly grand.

       Brave peasants whom the Father, God,

       Sent to reclaim the stubborn sod;

       Well they perform'd their task, and won

       Altar and hearth for the woodman's son.

       Joy, to Canada's unborn heirs,

       A deathless heritage is theirs;

       For, sway'd by wise and holy laws,

       Its voice shall aid the world's great cause,

       Shall plead the rights of man, and claim

       For humble worth an honest name;

       Shall show the peasant-born can be,

       When call'd to action, great and free.

       Like fire, within the flint conceal'd,

       By stern necessity reveal'd,

       Kindles to life the stupid sod,

       Image of perfect man and God.

       “Joy, to thy unborn sons, for they

       Shall hail a brighter, purer day;

       When peace and Christian brotherhood

       Shall form a stronger tie than blood—

       And commerce, freed from tax and chain,

       Shall build a bridge o'er earth and main;

       And man shall prize the wealth of mind,

       The greatest blessing to mankind;

       True Christians, both in word and deed,

       Ready in virtue's cause to bleed,

       Against a world combined to stand,

       And guard the honour of the land.

       Joy, to the earth, when this shall be,

       Time verges on eternity.”