VI
Thine eyes returning from the Southern Cross,
Will, when like Perry, they have reached the Pole,
Search under it to find thy banished soul,
O Canada, and tell it of thy loss
In letting a foul dead body, which the moss
Of the deep sea should hide, loom as thy whole
And rule, as dead things rule, with death for toll,
As pierced by Papineau through Glamor's gloss.
From South to North, no sky is black but thine.
Thy fecund brain, the Borealis, shows
A swaying disc with shades of dark for glows,
With but a faint salt smell of Color's brine,
The pent-up billows in the disc's dark close,
Which might flood midnight with rare, world-wide shine.