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Lundy's
Lane and Other Poems
by
Duncan Campbell Scott
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FRAGMENT
OF AN ODE TO CANADA
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THIS
is the land! |
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It
lies outstretched a vision of delight,
Bent like a shield between the silver seas
It flashes back the hauteur of the sun;
Yet teems with humblest beauties, still a part |
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Of
its Titanic and ebullient heart.
LAND
of the glacial, lonely mountain ranges, |
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Where
nothing haps save vast Æonian changes, |
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The
slow moraine, the avalanche's wings,
Summer and Sun,—the elemental things, |
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Pulses
of Awe,—Winter and Night and the lightnings.
Land of the pines that rear their dusky spars
A ready midnight for hte earliest stars.
The land of rivers, rivulets, and rills,
Straining incessant everyway to the sea, |
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With
their white thunder harnessed in the mills,
Turning one wealth to another wealth perpetually;
Spinning the lightning with dynamic spindles,
Till some far city dowered with fire enkindles.
THE
land of fruit, fine-flavoured with the frost |
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Land
of the cattle, the deep-chested host,
The happy-souled, that contemplate the hours,
Their dew-laps buried in the grass and flowers.
And O! the myriad-miracle of the grain
Cresting the hill, brimming the level plain, |
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The
miracle of the flower and milk and kernel,
Nurtured by sun-fire and frost-fire supernal,
Until the farmer turns it in his hand,
The million-millioned miracle of the land.
AND
yet with all these pastoral and heroic graces, |
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Our
simplest flowers wear the loveliest faces;
The sparrows ar our most enraptured singers,
And round their songs the fondest memory lingers;
Our forests tower and tremble, star-enchanted,
Their roots are by the timid spirits haunted |
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| Of
hermit thrushes,—trancèd is the air;
Ever in doubt when they shall sing or where;
The mountains may with ice and avalanche wrestle,
Far down their rugged steeps dimple and nestle
The still, translucent, turquise-hearted tarns. |
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AND
Thou, O Power, that 'stablishest the Nation,
Give wisdom in the midst of our elation;
Who are so free that we forget we are—
That freedom brings the deepest obligation:
Grant us this presage for a guiding star,
To lead the van of Peace, not with a craven spirit, |
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But
with the consciousness that we inherit
What built the Empire out of blood and fire,
And can smite, too, in passion and with ire.
Purge us of Pride, who are so quick in vaunting
Thy gift, this land, that is in nothing wanting; |
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| Give
Mind to match the glory of the gift,
Give great Ideals to bridge the sordid rift
Between our heritage and our use of it.
THEN
in some day of terror for the world,
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When
all the flags of the Furies are unfurled, |
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When
Truth and Justice, wildered and unknit,
Shall turn for help to this young, radiant land,
We shall be quick to see and understand:
What shall we answer in that stricken hour?
Shall the deep thought be pregnant then with power? |
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Shall
the few words spring swift and grave and clear?
Use well the present moment. They shall hear.
August,
1911. |
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