THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS.

'Their voice shall be heard in other ages, When the kings of Temora have failed.'

Ye say, we sing no household songs, To those beside our hearths at play; No minstrelsy to us belongs, No legends of our by-gone day: No old traditions of the hills, Our giant land no memory fills— We have no proud heroic lay! Ye ask the time-worn storied page— Ye ask the things of other age, From us—a race of yesterday!

Of yore, in Britain's feudal halls, Where many a warlike trophy hung, With shield and banner on the walls, The bard's high harp was sternly strung To praise of war—its fierce delights— To 'heroes of an hundred fights,' Ever the 'sounding shell' outrung! Gone is the ancient Bardic race— Their song hath found perpetual place Their country's proud archives among!

The warlike Norsemen of the isles, Erst o'er the wave held sovereignty— A sound is swelling where, erewhile, Their ringing spears made melody: Rude hunters of the seal and whale Are chaunting out the Saga's tale, To the wild winds sweeping by— How their heroes heard the Valkyriur call To the feast and song in Odin's hall— To the white mead foaming high!

The stirring Scottish border tale, Pealed from the chords in chieftain's hall— The wild traditions of the Gäel, The wandering harper's lays recall: All have their legends, and their songs— Records of glory, feud, and wrongs. What nerved the fair chivalric Gaul, When woke the bold 'Parisienne?' The 'Marsellois?' what foeman then Roused him to conquer or to fall?

What thought the Switzer's bosom thrills, When sounds the 'Ranz de Vache' on high; A race as ancient as their hills, Still echoes their wild mountain cry: He springs along the rocky height— He marks the lammergeyer's flight— The chamois bounding by: He snuffs the mountain breeze of morn— He winds again the mountain horn, And the loud Alps reply!

Our fathers bore from Albion's isle, No stories of her sounding lyres— They left the old baronial pile— They left the harp of ringing wires! Ours are the legends old and dim, The household song—the evening hymn, Sung by your bright hearth-fires! Each tree that in your soft wind stirs, Waves o'er our ancient sepulchres— The ashes of our sires!

Yea, forth they went, nerved to forsake Home, and the chains they might not bear— And woman's heart was strong, to break The links of love which bound her there. Here, free to worship and believe, From many a log-built hut, at eve, Went up the suppliant voice of prayer. Is it not writ on history's page, How the strong arm claimed our heritage?— Of the lion claimed his lair!

Our people sang no loud war-songs, They shouted no loud battle-cry— A burning memory of their wrongs Lit up their path to victory! With prayer to God to aid the right, The yeoman girded him for fight, To free the land he tilled, or die! They bore no proud escutcheon'd shield— No blazoned banners to the field— Nought but their motto—'Liberty!'

Their sons—when after years shall fling O'er these romance—when time hath cast The mighty shadow of his wing Between them and the stoned past— Will tell of foul oppression's heel, Of hands which bore the avenging steel, And battled sternly to the last— By their hearth-fires—on the hill-side free, Till the swell is caught by the echöing sea, And hymned by the wandering blast!