A Canadian Epic, XXXII–LV

I stand upon the hill at Ottawa, And stretching wide before me lies a scene Of pretty lowland country. Near and far, The river Ottawa winds on between The wooded slopes and meadow-lands, where lie The lazy cattle chewing silently.

The scene is unimposing; there is nought Of grandeur or magnificence displayed; But by its quiet prettiness is brought A sense of calm enjoyment—hill and glade And peaceful meadow, all alike suggest Sweet thoughts of still serenity and rest.

The face of Nature, for the student's mind, Provides a subject inexhaustible. And, in its study, weary men may find A solace for the troubles caused by all The sorrows and afflictions which must be The lot of all, of high or low degree.

The mountain, by its grandeur, testifies To His omnipotence who placed it there; The rushing, mighty torrent verifies His ceaseless working; and His constant care And kindliness is proven by the still And growing meadow, and the purling rill.

Thus, whatsoever his environment, The sorrow-stricken one can find a balm, Which should assuage his moody discontent, Replacing it by trustfulness and calm. For God reveals Himself in every place, And writes His presence on Creation's face.

And here I feel a quiet peace unfelt In all my solitary wanderings Before. My heavy troubles seem to melt Away, and Faith a calm contentment brings, And all my misery aside is thrown; He cares for me who cares for all His own.

A pile majestic and magnificent, Of lofty buildings, stands upon this hill; Unequalled elsewhere on the continent, It well bespeaks the architective skill Displayed in this our nineteenth century; And clothes the city with its dignity.

Within these walls are gathered in debate The statesmen and the legislators, who Are learned in the matters of the State. Alike to God and to their country true These men should be, and high above the rest Exalted, seeking not self-interest.

These hold the country's welfare in their hand. A mighty trust to them has been consigned. They know their duty, and should understand What acts will echo best the people's mind; And they should act, in matters small or great, As wisdom and their consciences dictate.

Thus should they act, but thus do not they all, But mildly bow to their Dictator's bid; They fear to disobey him, lest they fall Quick victims to his anger, or be chid Severely by the leader, in whose power It lies to give his slaves official dower.

Thus is a heavy premium placed upon A blind obedience and servility; And high position hardly can be won Except by meekness and docility: By meekness where assertion would be right; By weak docility where should be might.

And they, the Ministers of State, who hold The gift of the office and the nation's trust, From long retained authority grow bold, And, almost flagrantly, they dare adjust The national affairs in such a way As best will serve them, and protract their sway.

But not too far do they attempt to go In serving self. There stands an arbiter To whom they must appeal; were this not so, Their conscientiousness might not deter The country's servants from committing deeds To hinder which their shame now intercedes.

And yet, methinks, the arbiter to whom They must appeal is far too liberal, Or far too careless. When the day has come In which a judgment must be given on all The actions of their Ministers of State, The people are too mild and moderate.

Or they forget the misdeeds of the past— Misdeeds which well deserve a harder name, And which at first provoked a stormy blast Of anger, and aroused a sense of shame Within the people's hearts—these are forgot, Though on the Nation's life they leave a blot.

They are forgot; for party feelings run More high than love of country, and the man, Who can defeat the chosen champion Of an opposing party, will obtain A full forgiveness for his deeds of shame, And crown himself with all a hero's fame.

Not Liberal and not Conservative Alone compels my wrath; to either party My feeble but impartial pen would give A condemnation passionate and hearty; Each sees the wreck the Catholic has made In Canada, and each implores his aid.

Each begs support for only selfish ends; Unfired with love for Britain's Queen they cry, And seek to make the Catholics their friends For party purposes; their loyalty Bombastically swearing, each bows down To those inimical to Britain's Crown.

'Tis hate of bigotry, they glibly shout, Impels their tolerance: Oh! take that word And bid the feet of License crush it out; For License now is undisputed lord. Let not the bigot live,—but nurse the snake That brings the Inquisition in its wake!

See where, in old Quebec, its Premier Uplifts the Tricolor, and waves it high. While shouts un-English rend the poisoned air To greet the new-born Nationality; And hear Ontario's Minister confess His joy for this, a Liberal success!

And is it bigotry to interfere When treason stalks triumphant through the land? Will none but bigots hear the traitors cheer, Nor long to raise aloft the armed hand? Your ancestors would not account it so; And English hearts would burn to strike the blow.

Tear down that flag! in God's name and the Queen's. Will not the Red Cross Banner rouse your zeal? Tear down that flag! and let who intervenes Bite hard the dust beneath your iron heel. Tear down that flag!—Oh, Canada! bow, bow Your shameful head in deep contrition now.

What wonder, since your party deeds alone Absorb your thought and wake your energy, That insurrection's seeds are widely sown, And voice is given to dark disloyalty? Ye clothe your land in insurrection's dress, And nurse disloyalty, by callousness.

And I, though sojourning a stranger here, Will dare to raise my voice in condemnation, When words unwelcome to an English ear Are heard re-echoing without cessation; The while accursed party interests Drive patriotic thoughts from out your breasts.