Classic Poem

Thou land for gods, or those of old
Whom men deemed gods, of loftier mould,

Sons of the vast, the hills, the sea:
Masters of earth's humanity:

I stand here where this autumn morn
Autumnal garbs thy hills adorn,

And all thy woodlands flame with fire,
And glory of the world's desire.

Far northward lie thy purple hills,
Far vasts between, thy great stream fills,

Ottawa, his fleet tides impearled,
From deep to deep, adown the world.

O land, by every gift of God
Brave home of freemen, let thy sod,

Sacred with blood of hero sires,
Spurn from its breast ignobler fires.

Keep on these shores where beauty reigns,
And vastness folds from peak to plains,

With room for all from hills to sea,
No shackled, helot tyranny.

Spurn from thy breast the bigot lie,
The smallness not of earth or sky,

Breed all thy sons brave stalwart men,
To meet the world as one to ten.

Breed all thy daughters mothers true,
Magic of that glad joy of you,

Till liberties thy hills adorn
As wide as thy wide fields of corn.

Let that brave soul of Britain's race
That peopled all this vastness, trace

Its freedoms fought, ideals won,
Strength built on strength from sire to son.

Till from thy earth-wide hills and seas,
Thy manhood as thy strength of trees,

Thy liberty alone compare
With thy wide winnowed mountain air,

And round earth's rim thine honor glows,
Unsullied as thy drifted snows.