IF songs be sung let minstrels strike their harps
To large and joyous strains, all thunder-winged
To beat along vast shores.  Ay, let their notes
Wild into eagles soaring toward the sun,
And voiced like bugles bursting thro' the dawn
When armies leap to life!  Give them such breasts
As hold immortal fires, and they shall fly,
Swept with our little sphere thro' all the change
That waits a whirling world.

                              Joy's an immortal;
She hath a fiery fibre in her flesh
That will not droop or die; so let her chant
The paeans of the dead, where holy Grief
Hath, trembling, thrust the feeble mist aside
That veils her dead, and in the wondrous clasp
Of re-possession ceases to be Grief.
Joy's ample voice shall still roll over all,
And chronicle the heroes to young hearts
Who knew them not.  Beside their hoary urns
Shall leap the laugh of babes, and men shall pause,
Lifting their little lads to gaze, and say:
"Come, now, my son, spell the three names aloud--
Brown, Moor, and Fitch.  Ay, right, my lad!  Be proud
Of them!  It was a joyous day for us,
The day they made that bold burst at Batoche,
And with their dead flesh built a wall about
Our riving land."

                           There's glory on the sword
That keeps its scabbard-sleep, unless the foe
Beat at the wall, then freely leaps to light
And thrusts to keep the sacred towers of Home
And the dear lines that map the nation out upon the
   world. 

                HIS MOTHER.

 In the first dawn she lifted from her bed
 The holy silver of her noble head,
 And listened, listened, listened for his tread.

"Too soon, too soon!" she murmured, "yet I'll keep
 My vigil longer--thou, O tender Sleep,
 Art but the joy of those who wake and weep!

"Joy's self hath keen, wide eyes.  O flesh of mine,
 And mine own blood and bone, the very wine
 Of my aged heart, I see thy dear eyes shine!

"I hear thy tread; thy light, loved footsteps run
 Along the way, eager for that 'Well done!"
 We'll weep and kiss to thee, my soldier son!

"Blest mother I--he lives!  Yet had he died
 Blest were I still,--I sent him on the tide
 Of my full heart to save his nation's pride!"

"O God, if that I tremble so to-day,
 Bowed with such blessings that I cannot pray
 By speech--a mother prays, dear Lord, alway

"In some far fibre of her trembling mind!
 I'll up--I thought I heard a bugle bind
 Its silver with the silver of the wind."

                HIS WIFE AND BABY.

       In the lone place of the leaves,
       Where they touch the hanging eaves,
There sprang a spray of joyous song that sounded sweet
           and sturdy;
       And the baby in the bed
       Raised the shining of his head,
And pulled the mother's lids apart to wake and watch
          the birdie.

       She kissed lip-dimples sweet,
       The red soles of his feet,
The waving palms that patted hers as wind-blown
          blossoms wander;
       He twined her tresses silk
       Round his neck as white as milk--
"Now, baby, say what birdie sings upon his green spray
          yonder."

      "He sings a plenty things--
       Just watch him wash his wings!
He says Papa will march to-day with drums hone thro'
          the city.
       Here, birdie, here's my cup,
       You drink the milk all up;
I'll kiss you, birdie, now you're washed like baby clean
          and pretty."

       She rose; she sought the skies
       With the twin joys of her eyes;
She sent the strong dove of her soul up thro' the dawn-
           ing's glory;
       She kissed upon her hand
       The glowing golden band
That bound the fine scroll of her life and clasped her
          simple story.

              HIS SWEETHEART.

        Sylvia's lattices were dark--
          Roses make them narrow.
        In the dawn there came a Spark,
          Armèd with an arrow:
        Blithe he burst by dewy spray,
          Winged by bud and blossom,
        All undaunted urged his way
          Straight to Sylvia's bosom.
        "Sylvia!  Sylvia!  Sylvia!" he
          Like a bee kept humming,
        "Wake, my sweeting; waken thee,
          For thy Soldier's coming!"

        Sylvia, sleeping in the dawn,
          Dreams that Cupid's trill is
        Roses singing on the lawn,
          Courting crested lilies.
        Sylvia smiles and Sylvia sleeps,
          Sylvia weeps and slumbers;
        Cupid to her pink ear creeps,
          Pipes his pretty numbers.
        Sylvia dreams that bugles play,
          Hears a martial drumming;
        Sylvia springs to meet the day
          With her Soldier coming.

        Happy Sylvia, on thee wait
          All the gracious graces!
        Venus mild her cestus plait
          Round thy lawns and laces!
        Flora fling a flower most fair,
          Hope a rainbow lend thee!
        All the nymphs to Cupid dear
          On this day befriend thee!
        "Sylvia!  Sylvia!  Sylvia!" hear
          How he keeps a-humming,
        Laughing in her jewelled ear,
          "Sweet, thy Soldier's coming!"