Know'st thou the land where kind Nature has given
In earth's beauty and grandeur a foretaste of heaven;
Where History lingers, enthralled with the view
Of as splendid exploits as the world ever knew;
Where Industry reaps the rewards of her toil
In the wealth of the cities, the fruits of the soil?
Know'st thou the land which the Muses regard,
The land of the sculptor, the singer, the bard?
Know'st thou the land where the spell of the past
Is over the mind irresistibly cast;
Where the present fulfills the fond hopes of the years,
The dreams of romancers, the visions of seers,
Where the future inspires with a prospect sublime,
Maturing the fairest fruition of time?
Know'st thou this land of Heaven's favor possest,
The fortunate land of a destiny blest?
Know'st thou the land?
Know'st thou the land?
'Tis the land of my home, my belov'd native land.
O MAPLE LEAF!
Thee best of leaves I love,
In forest or in grove,
O Maple Leaf;
O thou which art the sign
Of this dear land of mine,
What loveliness is thine,
O Maple Leaf!
Naught can with thee compare,
On earth or in the air,
O Maple Leaf;
Wondrous thy beauties are;
Thy form is like a star,
But thou art not afar,
O Maple Leaf.
When drops of dew adorn
Thy surface in the morn,
O Maple Leaf,
No hue so fair is seen,
In silk or satin's sheen,
As thy rich shade of green,
O Maple Leaf.
No music in my ear
Is half so sweet to hear,
O Maple Leaf,
As that which thou dost make
When winds of summer shake
The branches of the brake,
O Maple Leaf.
Most beautiful in pain,
When suns begin to wane,
O Maple Leaf,
Thou never growest old,
But in the time of cold
Thou turnest but to gold,
O Maple Leaf.
And when the earth expires,
And mute are all her choirs,
O Maple Leaf,
Thy dower thou dost shed
Of tribute, richest red,
Upon her sombre bed,
O Maple Leaf.