Classic Poem

What matters it if on the stormy shore
Of wild Newfoundland or stern Labrador
His foot first fell, or on Cape Breton's strand?
The dauntless sailor somewhere hit the land!

The Land! No pent-up nursling of the seas,
Fanned in the Gulf-stream by the torrid breeze;
For Ocean grim this grim sea dog had cast,
Triumphant, on his furthest shore at last.

With loud huzzas St. George's banner flew,
First o'er the main — a world, an Empire new!
Whilst woke the Continent, and, from his lair,
The wilding rushed, and shook his streaming hair!

Time sped, and saw full many a flag unfurled
In fierce contention for that virgin world;
Saw France's star by Britain's sun effaced,
And Britain's flag by kindred hands abased.

Yet time beheld the trampled banner rise
Victorious beneath Canadian skies,
And races nurtured 'neath its sway go forth,
In welded strength the Nation of the North.

And where is he who gave a realm to these
Large heirs of Freedom, rulers of its seas?
What recompense was his? What high acclaim? —
An unknown grave, a half-forgotten name!

But, no! The hour is ripe; its tumult stills
Whilst Canada her sacred task fulfils.
At last the triumph sounds, the laurels twine,
And incense burns at Cabot's matchless shrine!