Part 9 (1/2)

II

Wake, Caledonia! though Macauley, Whigging, Would ward the flames from scarring William's face, So that, then, Cain might shriek,--here, take my place, A fugitive and outcast, with no digging To hide in, nor a rest for my fatiguing; The mark on me, is but G.o.d's finger trace; On you, 'tis G.o.d's whole hand!--Still, there's the blaze!

There's England's soul of merciless intriguing!

List! 'tis the bagpipes welcoming the guest.

See the a.s.sembly, dance and feast. Oh, watch The open heart and flow of good old Scotch; The English come, as friends, must have the best.

There, hospitality is at top notch,-- And so is treachery in Britain's breast.

III

The c.o.c.k crows.--Is he dreaming? 'Tis dark still.

He crows again and now, from farm to farm, His fellows echo far his dazed alarm And flap of wings on fences. He is shrill Because it is not dawn above the hill, That wakes him, but the English, as they arm, And murder sleep, that has no dream of harm, In couch and crib,--to further England's will.

O Caledonia! with such lamp in hand As Glencoe's horror, thou hast England true.

Why let Froude fiction haze thy vivid view?

Put not thy light out for sound sleep, but stand And answer, when the mother, whom thou drew Thy soul from, cries ”Glencoe”! when Black and Taned.

CANADA

I

O Canada, Long red with cottage flame From Britain's torch! thy blasts milk not the cloud To nourish hope; instead, they spread the shroud On Human Spirit answering Freedom's claim.

Whence comes the cold which icicles with shame, Thy heart's Niagara, that should thunder loud Unto thy far off soul in sorrow, bowed O'er Papineau, whom Thraldom could not tame?

Now following the Friends, who grandly led The slave through tunnels to the Northern Star, To find, in freedom, richer bloomage far, Than the Magnolia o'er the cattle shed,-- I reach thy soul,--where now the Crawfords are, And learn the cold is not from manhood dead.

II

Whence comes this cold to Freedom's claim? we know Only too well,--from creatures of the King, Who had dragged h.e.l.l of every poisonous thing And, through our country, had spread waste and woe.

Beaten at last, they flocked like carion crow, On the dead body of their will to sting, Which drifting Northward, and enlargening, Loomed Dante's Nimrod, 'mid the Arctic snow.

There, with the reptile's hate of Man Upright, As G.o.d created him, and reptiles veins, Aflow with deaths cold blood--for that sustains The life of tyrant and of parasite-- This monster, though half sunk in h.e.l.l, remains High, still, above the Arctic's shuddering night.

III

The monster's inhalations empty h.e.l.l Of all deterents to Life's flow and flower; Then, its outbreathings icily devour The cataract in flight and, down the dell, The streamlets to delight, and buds, as well, Of virtue, forming bloom for Freedom's bower;-- Nay, its out breathings,--through Creed hatred's power-- Grow Boreus and face where freeman dwell.

Lo! with Sun-warmth for Truth and Human Right, Is Boreus met. Who hurles him down the deep?

Look close;--'tis Gladden who, on Freedom's steep, Is as inspiring, as, on Andes' height, The great Christ Statue, bidding Rancor sleep And Life's diverging rays in love, beam Light.