THE NATIVE BORN.

There's a thing we love to think of when the summer days are long, And the summer winds are blowing, and the summer sun is strong, When the orchards and the meadows throw their fragrance on the air, When the grain-fields flaunt their riches, and the glow is everywhere.

Something sings it all the day, Canada, fair Canada, And the pride thrills through and through us, 'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

There's a thing we love to think of when the frost and ice and snow Hold high carnival together, and the biting north winds blow.

There's a thing we love to think of through the bitter winter hours, For it stirs a warmth within us--'tis this fair young land of ours.

Something sings it all the day, Canada, fair Canada, And the pride thrills through and through us, 'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

Ours with all her youth and promise, ours with all her strength and might, Ours with all her mighty waters and her forests deep as night.

Other lands may far outshine her, boast more charms than she can claim, But this young land is our own land, and we love her very name.

Something sings it all the day, Canada, fair Canada, And the pride thrills through and through us, 'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

Let the man born in old England love the dear old land the most, For what spot a man is born in, of that spot he's fain to boast; Let the Scot look back toward Scotland with a longing in his eyes, And the exile from old Erin think her green sh.o.r.es paradise, Native born are we, are we, Canada, fair Canada, And the pride thrills through and through us, 'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

Well we love that sea-girt island, and we strive to understand All the greatness, all the grandeur, of the glorious Mother Land; And we cheer her to the skies, cheer her till the echoes start, For the old land holds our homage, but the new land holds our heart!

Native born are we, are we, Canada, fair Canada!

And the pride thrills through and through us, 'Tis our birthplace, Canada!

THE KING'S GIFT.

TO E. S. R.

The new year coming to us with swift feet Is the King's gift, And all that in it lies Will make our lives more rounded and complete.

It may be laughter, May be tear-filled eyes; It may be gain of love, Or loss of love; It may be thorns, or bloom and breath of flowers, The full fruition of these hopes that move-- It may be what will break these hearts of ours, What matter? 'Tis the great gift of the King-- We do not need to fear what it may bring.

THE Pa.s.sAGE.

O soul on G.o.d's high seas! the way is strange and long, Yet fling your pennons out, and spread your canvas strong; For though to mortal eyes so small a craft you seem, The highest star in heaven cloth lend you guiding gleam.

O soul on G.o.d's high seas! look to your course with care, Fear most when winds are kind and skies are blue and fair.

Your helm must sway at touch of no hand save your own-- The soul that sails on G.o.d's high seas must sail alone.

O soul on G.o.d's high seas! sail on with steady aim, Unmoved by winds of praise, untouched by seas of blame.

Beyond the lonely ways, beyond the guiding star, There stretches out the strand and golden harbor bar.

AIR CASTLES.

I built a castle in the air-- A radiant thing made out of dreams; Love's dear desire its golden stair-- Naught heavier than a hope was there-- A thing of mist and rainbow gleams.

But when it fell--ah! when it fell, Though made o' dreams and mist and shine, The mystery of it who can tell?

Its falling shook both heaven and h.e.l.l, And ground to dust this heart of mine.

YOUTH AND JUNE.

I was your lover long ago, sweet June, Ere life grew hard; I am your lover still, And follow gladly to the wondrous tune You pipe on golden reeds to vale and hill.

I am your lover still--to me you seem To hold the fragrance of the joys long dead-- The brightness and the beauty of the dream We dreamed in youth--to hold the tears we shed, The laughter of our lips--the faith that lies Back in that season dear to every heart, Life's springtime, when G.o.d's earth and G.o.d's blue skies Are, measured by our glance, not far apart.

THE MOTHER.

As "Peace on earth!" the glad world sings one glorious Christmas morn, "Peace, peace on earth! Good-will to men! Peace, peace! the Christ is born!"

As through the courts, the wondrous courts, of heaven hosannas ring, As harpers strike their harps of gold and "Glory! Glory!" sing, Upon the City's threshold fair A woman steps, and lingers there.

The eyes she turns on Peter's face with unshed tears are dim, "Tell Christ," she says, "a mother waits who fain would speak with Him."

Through all the music, far above the highest, grandest note Of triumph, and of joy and praise, her soft voice seems to float; And hearing it, straight from His throne Comes down to her the Kingly One With shining face and eyes that hold Such wealth of love and peace, She feels her trembling heart grow bold, Her doubt and grieving cease.

"Dear Lord!" she cries, and lowly kneels, "I have a prayer to make; O do Thou hear and answer it for Thine own mercy's sake, Since heaven will not seem fair to me If one dear face I may not see.

"Dear Christ, a mother's love is great To shield, to guide, to watch, to wait.

The last kiss that I gave on earth was to my wayward son, Whose soul, though deeply stained by sin, may yet by love be won To penitence, to higher walk, to purer, holier way; O wilt Thou let me to go to him and guard him night and day?

"Thou wert a babe in Bethlehem, a mother guarded Thee.

I pray Thee now, for her dear sake, to hearken unto me!

Remember how she held Thee close, and crooned Thee, sweet and low, The lullabies that mothers sang long centuries ago, And bared her snowy breast to Thee, And stroked Thy forehead tenderly.

"And kissed Thee oft, and told herself, again and yet again, To hold Thee thus one hour outweighed the travail and the pain!

Dear Christ, this city is most fair; its glories thrill and move; O doth it grieve Thee that my heart cleaves to an earthly love?

That on mine eyes heaven's beauties dim Because my heart is back with him?

"With him--the wandering son of mine, the wayward one--whose need Of patient love and guiding hand is very great indeed!

Think not I love Thee not, dear Lord, nor long for heaven's rest; 'Tis only that the mother-heart throbs fiercely in my breast.

On this glad morning of Thy birth, O grant me leave to visit earth!"

Lo! on her head she feels the touch of tender wounded hand, "Fear not," she hears, "a love like thine the Christ can understand.

No mother prays in vain to Me on this day of the year, For when the faltering words she speaks fall on My waiting ear, I do remember that My cheek Lay on a bosom warm, I do remember Bethlehem, And Mary's cradling arm."