“Is there a place, a work, a rank
Our Canada is called to fill:—
She has but struggled till she sank
Hers is it but to toil and till:
No seat among the peoples ours.” —
So speaks the Tempter in our bowers.
So soft he presses on his bonds:—
But hark! a softer voice responds:
“Behold, Canadians, this your place,
Your task, your rank, in earth and heaven
To make you an especial race
To God and human progress given.”
Too holy is the task for jeers,
Too lofty to permit of fears.
Ignoble is the fear of loss;
The call of honour all demands!
What thought those generous hearts of dross
Who sowed our races in these lands?
Who blames the Loyalist of pelf?
Champlain, what cared he for himself?
Ignoble is the dread of harm:—
Expurge it for a nobler creed!
Until we smile at all alarm
Poor will be our Canadian breed.
He may not count on victories
Who will not die as patriot dies.
Ignoble the consent to take
The light opinions of our worth
That strangers condescending make
Who own not better brains nor birth:—
Children of men who toiled and fought,
Build your own fate; respect your lot.
Arise! Live out a larger dream —
Your nation's that ye may be man's:
Advance; invent; improve; the gleam
Of dawn for all illume your plans!
Greece lived! the world requires again
The lives of nations and of men!