A Canadian Epic, XXV–XLVII

For man is given a living, loving soul; Man lives as other works of God live not; He strives to reach a high and Heav'nly goal— Incomparably higher is his lot. God's greatest work, how fitly he should be The one which most adores His majesty.

But each creation, when it first reveals Itself to man, impresses him anew With God's omnipotence, and so he feels New cause for adoration in each view. Himself though greatest, these creations each Their own great lessons to his spirit teach.

And ye, great mountains, have your lessons, ye Have mighty truths to teach the heart of man Of God's omnipotence and majesty, Which, if he will to learn from ye, he can. But many blindly grope upon their way, Refusing all the light of Nature's ray.

A mountain tarn, with waters still and blue, Here nestles, open to the heavens whence It seemingly derives its azure hue. Here, has this little tarn pre-eminence, For 'mid such mighty works appearing less, It must attract us by its littleness.

'Tis small; but, like the cloud that servant saw Whose master bade him look for rain, it grows To greater bulk; for hence the streamlets draw Their first supplies; and each one onward flows, With speed increasing, down the mountain side, And rolls, a river, in the ocean tide.

So great from little things evolve; and as Man looks upon this tarn and cannot see The mighty river flowing hence, but has To hear report of its immensity; So faith should teach him patiently to wait While little things of life lead on to great.

But I must leave ye now; I cannot stay, Great mountains, in your midst. Regretfully Must I be borne upon my Westward way, And leave ye far behind me. Yet, should ye No more delight my eye, it cannot be That I shall e'er forget your majesty.

A quiet voice within me whispering, Advises me to tarry not, nor spend Unneedful hours in westward travelling; For peace awaits me at my journey's end. Alas! 'tis but the mountain solitude That thus has calmed and soothed my weary mood.

I would it were a voice intuitive To say that all my suffering should be Now swept away; that henceforth I should live In peace and quiet happiness; that she Whose love alone can shine upon my life With healing light, could be my loving wife.

Ah no! It cannot be. Such happiness Is not for me. Yet will I haste me on As best I may. Kind fortune yet may bless The man on whom her smile has never shone. No more I'll linger here, no more delay My steps, but haste with speedy gait away.

With rapid flight I pass the mountains through, Nor pause to rest upon my hurried way Till, like a picture, burst upon my view The unsung beauties of Vancouver's Bay. Nor here I pause, and, onward speeding fast, Victoria appears in view at last.

Here Nature's gifts, all lavishly displayed, Make this a spot most fair and beautiful. Utopia's scene could here be fitly laid. These wooded heights, these straits so clear and cool, The distant mountain's—In the poet's eyes What, more than this, could be earth's Paradise?

But beauties physical cannot combine Alone to make an earthly Paradise; But where the lamps of Love most brightly shine, There, there the happiness of Heaven lies, And bitter hatred, by its cursed spell, Will make a very Paradise a hell.

I wander through the city; there is nought Of beauty or attractiveness here shown. Nature, and Nature only, here has brought Adornment. But that little man has done Which bare necessity compelled him do; And nothing tasteful meets my weary view.

I pass the city through, and onward, till A pleasing view awakens me, I stray. Here, standing on a high and wooded hill, Imposing is the view that I survey. Afar, across the straits, the mountains rise In sunlit mightiness before my eyes.

So near they seem that I could almost be There, at their feet, before the noon of day. And yet I know the mountains, seemingly So near, in truth are many miles away. The air, so pure and undefiled, brings near The view, which else far distant would appear.

Thus is it with our cherished hopes. We see, Not seeming far, a life of happiness Before us; and so close it seems to be, That present grief and trouble pain us less Than otherwise they would. More cheerfully We bear our trials for their brevity.

But, as the days of pain roll slowly by, And lengthen them to weary months and years, And all our hopes of happiness still lie Unfructified, these almost yield to fears; And faith alone will give us strength to bear Affliction's heavy scourge without despair.

Deep disappointment constantly renewed Has weakened us; but still we hope to gain That brighter life. But oh! if we'd reviewed, At first, that life of long-continued pain, We scarce had found the strength to struggle through The path o'ershadowed with so dark a hue.

But each new day has brought a new-born hope, Each night of rest has strengthened us anew, And given us again the power to cope With pain and trial; and we still pursue Our way in faith, and day by day we cherish The hope that on that day our pain will perish.

Thus is it best that we should never know What is to be, but walking in the path Appointed, thank our God who made it so; And daily forward press our way in faith Unquestioningly, knowing well that He, Who chose that path, is wiser far than we.

Upon the waters now the sun has poured His morning light; each little ripple gleams In joy because the day has been restored, And dances lightly in its welcome beams. And gladly, brightly on the wavelets go, And musically murmur as they flow.

And as they flow they breathe upon the air An odour strengthening, which had not been Except the sea waves shone and glittered there. No unbrined waters roll these hills between, For, by their constant forth and backward motion, They tell their kinship to the mighty ocean.

Roll, roll, great Pacific, roll! Ten thousands of years with their joys and their fears, Thy billows cannot control. Still roll, Pacific, roll!

Toss, toss, great Pacific, toss! For the hunter of seal, whose woe is thy weal, And whose gain is thine only loss. Still toss, Pacific, toss!

Foam, foam, great Pacific, foam! On thy rock-bound coast the wild Indians boast Thy mountains, not thee, their home. Still foam, Pacific, foam!

Surge, surge, great Pacific, surge! Though the mariners hear, with prophetical fear, In thy surging their deathly dirge. Still, surge, Pacific, surge!

Roar, roar, great Pacific, roar! For the gold-hunter's breast is in wilder unrest Than the billows that lash thy shore. Still roar, Pacific, roar!

Moan, moan, great Pacific, moan! For the Inca of old, with his treasures untold, From Peruvian shores is gone. Still moan, Pacific, moan!

Wave, wave, mild Pacific, wave! On the light, sandy bar of thine islands afar, In banana-tree grove is the old tale of love Still told by the dusky brave. Wave gently, Pacific, wave!