Volume 67 / Part 9 — CANADIAN LOYALTY. AN ODE.

[Written at Sunrise on New Year’s Morning of 1850, at the head of Lake Ontario, in Western Canada.]

As gleams the sunrise on the deep,

And on yon cliffs where eagles sweep,

And on the circling forests deep,

This morn, which owns the New Year’s birth,—

Is there no gratulating strain

To hail the advent of thy reign,

Thou latest link of Time’s long chain

Let down from heaven to this our earth?

Of Britain be that strain;—for she,

Stretching her empire o’er the sea,

Exalts the lowly, and sets free

From thraldom’s bonds the fettered slave;

For ever may her children share

The smiles of her maternal care;

For ever may her vessels bear

St George’s standard o’er the wave!

Droop not! Although dark tempests may

Obscure awhile the potent ray

That to these o’er-sea realms brought day,

And Treason walk secure the scene;

A second morning o’er the deep

Shall call us jubilee to keep,

And to old strains each heart shall leap—

“God save Britannia’s noble Queen!”

“God save Britannia’s noble Queen!”—

Shout it aloud! that strain hath been

From east to west, in every scene,

Heard by the nations, like a hymn

Wafted along from clime to clime,

To succour truth, to startle crime,

And, with an influence all sublime,

To brighten what before was dim.

Hark! ’tis Britannia’s morning gun

Heralding thee, thou glorious sun;

And, if it peal when daylight’s done,

Doth she not well that honour claim?

For wheresoe’er thy beams light earth,

Thou seest her wisdom and her worth;

Glories that own to her their birth,

And Trophies of her deathless fame!

From Zembla’s snows to India’s sun,

To her the faint, the feeble run,

They who Oppression’s grasp would shun,

Or Superstition’s horrors blind:

There exiles find a country—there

Monarchs and serfs alike repair,

And, underneath her guardian care,

A sure and safe asylum find!

Then think not, demagogues! on whom

Strike these first rays which now illume

Our land, that, with this year, in gloom

Shall Britain’s power eclipsed be seen.

No! if she wills it, hearts are here

That glory in her high career,

That from her side will sunder ne’er,

But proudly own one common Queen!

Methinks there glows in Britain yet

A feeling, that would grieve to let

Thee, sun! upon her empire set,

While shouts of rival nations rose:—

Our fathers were her sons, and we

Are but her offspring o’er the sea;

Aye undivided let us be—

We scorn to link us with her foes!

Methinks her subjects, side by side,

Will long her burdens just divide,—

Will long maintain, in matchless pride,

Her flag, which aye hath honoured been:—

And many a great deed yet be done,

And many a glorious field be won,

Ere of her empire set the sun.

“God save Britannia’s noble Queen.”

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