CHAPTER XII
CANADIAN POETS AND POETRY
"My guide is but the stir to song."
"But Love must kiss that mortal's eyes
Who hopes to see fair Arcady;
No gold can buy you entrance there,—
No wisdom won with weariness."
"''Tis strange you cannot sing,' quoth he,
'The folk all sing in Arcady.'"
Arcady, or Canada, are they one and the same? The pipes of Pan echo throughout the entire Dominion. The Poet—
"Born and nourished in miracles,"
writes his scroll by every shining lake, in the deep, dim interior of the forest, on every majestic mountain height. He renders constant service to the inward law, and it is the poet who is the real historian of his country. It is he who immortalises her heroic deeds; who paints her landscapes in unfading colours; who crystallises her greatness into song. One line of the poet's may outweigh a volume of descriptive prose.
"His instant thought a Poet spoke
And filled the age his fame."