"What Washington starved and strove for
In the long winter night;
Lincoln wept for, died for,—
Do we doubt if he were right?
* * * * *
"And who would fear to follow
When Nelson sets the course?
And who would turn his eyes away
From Wellington's white horse?
Not one, I warrant, now—
Not one at home to-day;
In England? In Scotland?
In the Green Isle cross the way?
No, nor far away to Westward
Beyond the leagues of foam—
They are coming, they are coming,
Their feet are turning home.
In Canada they're singing,
And love lies like a flame
About their throats this morning
Their sea-winds cannot tame.
Africa? Australia?
Aye a million throats proclaim
That their Motherland is Mother still
In something more than name!
"It is time! Come, all together, come!
Not to the fife's call, not to the drum;
Right needs you; Truth claims you—
That's a call indeed
One must heed!
Not for the weeping
(God knows there is weeping!)
Not for the horrors
That are blotting out the page;
Not for our comrades
(How many now are sleeping!)
Nor for the pity nor the rage,
But for the sake of simple goodness
And His laws
We shall sacrifice our all
For the Cause!"
One of the most brilliant of Canadian poets is Arthur Stringer, though he is more widely known as a novelist, his Silver Poppy and Wire Tappers having been the successes of their day. Mr. Stringer's poetic work is striking for its variety and range. He has written lyrics and sonnets of almost Keats-like quality, and with as ready facility has written poems in the most modern form of vers libre. Then he has turned to the literature of ancient Greece and given us such things of pure beauty in blank verse as Hephæstus and Sappho in Leucadia, which do not shrink in comparison with any other modern work of their kind; and again has presented us with such pitilessly realistic and convincing pictures as The Woman in the Rain. He has also written verse of the Celtic order, his volume of Irish Poems being a well of true Irish humour and feeling. And yet, withal, Stringer is Canadian in every nerve and fibre of him. Listen to his Going Home:
"I tread each mountain waste austere,
I pass dark pinelands, hill by hill;
Each tardy sunrise brings me near,
Each lonely sunset nearer still.
"Sing low, my heart, of other lands
And suns we may have loved, or known:
This silent North, it understands,
And asks but little of its own!