TECUMTHE.
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I.
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FAIR Canada,—within whose snowy arms My infant breath was nurtur’d,—yet once more The dark blue sea, hath borne me to thy charms To hail with manhood’s voice,—my native shore; Far years have glided, since my heart first wore |
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The
youthful bright impressions of the scene Still hallow’d fondly in my bosom’s core Which Memory’s font supplies;—altho’ between Those fairer hours, and me, some shadows intervene. II. Yet hath remembrance cherish’d in my breast |
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Thoughts
of my boyhood, and of infant mirth, When all was youthful innocence possess’d And Time with pleasure crown’d each moment’s birth, And these are thoughts which spring—my parent Earth, With melancholy feelings to retrace, |
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Days when such hours came
sweetly smiling forth And blue-eye’d Hope with soft unclouded face Ran in delighted round, its golden circled race. III. Clime of my birth,—of
cataract and wood, |
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Hath mark’d the roaring
pathways of the flood, Whose rapid waters foam along the land,— Where boundless forests, gloomily,—yet grand, Wave their high tops to the wild storm upcurl’d, Still unexplor’d save by some savage band |
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Thro’
ages—since Columbus first unfurl’d The banner of his fame upon the Western world:— IV. To thee, the
tribute of my lowly strain |
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To
shower with filial heart on thee and thine; And tho’ the chaplet which my muse can twine Meet the rude fingers of contempt and scorn, And he who homag’d to the heavenly Nine Droop his head low, by hopeless feelings torn, |
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Watering with silent tears, the soil where
he was born:—
V. Yet on thy bosom,
let me lay the wreath, |
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And as the fragrance
carried on the wind, From flowers exhal’d,—perfumes with balmy sighs, So shall fair memory, (whereso’er inclin’d My footsteps rove,)—its fairy visions rise, And paint thy scenes anew, with their endearing ties, |
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VI. Recalling
pastimes, when I lov’d to stray |
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Bounded
along ’midst jocund school-boy train, When Summer’s beams illumin’d nature’s dome, And blithely sporting thence, o’er Abraham’s Plain Tripp’d o’er its flower-crown’d site—brave Wolfe’s immortal fane. VII. Yet lisping then, in Poesy’s first words, |
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Creation
seem’d the Spring of joyous hours,— The roar of waters, and the song of birds, The voice of Zephyrus thro’ rosy bowers, The incense sweet, which fragrant nature showers O’er all her gifts, bespoke the brim of mirth, |
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And if awhile the thunder’s
awful powers Shook its repose, and caus’d a moment’s dearth, Soon did th’ ensuing bloom—woke to a lovelier birth. VIII. To haunt along thy
green embowering woods, |
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In the cool bosom of its
solitudes Where many a squirrel chirps, and wild bird sings;— To muse beneath, where the loud torrent rings Its volum’d waters in the gulph below, From whence the glittering spray, its moisture flings, |
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And the
white vapour mounts—a cloud of snow, O’er which the Iris sweet, shines with celestial glow. IX. Past hopes,—past
joys,—Care with increasing age, |
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Plods,
with the rest to the same awful goal;— We are all pilgrims, whose contentions roll With Time into Eternity,—albeit The sword,—or state,—the silver’d heap, or scroll, Charm our rous’d passions with the glittering cheat, 80 |
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Still do we grasp, allur’d,—by what we
deem most sweet.
X. But mine,—maternal
Nature, is to be |
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The song of praise, where
Fancy’s rays incline; And whilst all aspirations high, inspire Man in temptation of each proud design, I seek no fame,—fair land,—than the warm fire Which can accent thy praise, upon my lowly lyre. |
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XI. Peace to thy
hearths, and Plenty in thy halls,— |
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And
Death hath set its seal on this cold frame, Glanc’d on this page, some heart may ’chance restore, A passing thought of him—whose loftiest aim Was to conjoin at last, his Memory with thy name!— |
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