Classic Poem

To Her whose fame, these fifty years
Of triumph and of tears,
Beneath the searching radiance shed
On every loftiest head.

Hath stood with skirts unstained, and shown
How, even on a throne,
The grace may thrive and wifely good
Of tender womanhood;

To Her whose gaze thro' storm and peace
Hath marked her power increase,
Her people keep their steadfast way
Beneath her temperate sway.

Who wears in her Imperial place
The splendor of the race,
This reverent greeting speed we forth
From out our sanguine north;

Saying, that not for these alone
Our praise surrounds her throne,
Graces which other crowns have worn,
By other rulers borne.

—For justice, power, and counsel sage
Are hers by heritage,
And she would scorn a faith less pure
Than common hearths keep sure—

But rather than beneath her care
Hath ripened brave and fair
This Canada of north and storm,
Whose blood yet beats so warm—

This nation that hath weighed the worth
Of its heroic birth,
And now in manhood shall not shame
The loins from whence it came.