The Whitethroat.

    Shy bird of the silver arrows of song,
        That cleave our Northern air so clear,
    Thy notes prolong, prolong,
        I listen, I hear:
    "I - love - dear - Canada,
        Canada, Canada."

    O plumes of the pointed dusky fir,
        Screen of a swelling patriot heart,
    The copse is all astir,
        And echoes thy part!...



    Now willowy reeds tune their silver flutes
        As the noise of the day dies down;
    And silence strings her lutes,
        The Whitethroat to crown....

    O bird of the silver arrows of song,
        Shy poet of Canada dear,
    Thy notes prolong, prolong,
        We listen, we hear:
    "I - love - dear - Canada,
        Canada, Canada."

Theodore Harding Rand

Theodore Harding Rand was a Canadian educator, poet, and the first chief superintendent of education for New Brunswick, and later Nova Scotia. Born on February 8, 1835, in Carleton County, New Brunswick, Rand had a profound influence on the educational systems in both provinces. He was also a noted poet, contributing significantly to Canadian literature in the 19th century. He passed away on May 29, 1900.

Theodore Harding Rand

Ay Me!

Theodore Harding Rand, Simple Poetry

The Crystal Spring.

Theodore Harding Rand, Simple Poetry

To Emeline.

Theodore Harding Rand, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

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,

Jean Blewett

To Emeline.

    I would enshrine in silvern song
    The charm that bore our souls along,
        As in the sun-flushed days of summer
    We felt the pulsings of nature's throng;

    When flecks of foam of flying spray
    Smote white the red sun's torrid ray,
        Or wimpling fogs toyed with the mountain,
    Aërial spirits of dew at play;

    When hovering stars, poised in the blue,
    Came down and ever closer drew;
        Or, in the autumn air astringent,
    Glimmered the pearls of the moonlit dew.


    We talked of bird and flower and tree,
    Of God and man and destiny.
        The years are wise though days be foolish,
    We said, as swung to its goal the sea.

    Our spirits knew keen fellowship
    Of light and shadow, h...

Theodore Harding Rand

O Canada, Mon Pays, Mes Amours.

    (Title of a French-Canadian song.)

    O Canada, my country and my love,
    Held in my heart all other lands above;
    To thee to whom my homage should belong
    I pay the cheerful tribute of my song,
    And swear allegiance as on bended knee,
    And vow undying fealty to thee,
    O Canada, my country and my love.

    I crave no land of epic story cast
    In giant shadows on the misty past;
    No land illustrious in former time,
    Which has outlived the vigor of its prime;
    No lordlier land renowned across the sea,
    Nor any other land on earth but thee,
    O Canada, my country and my love.

    Past is thy night of darkness and of tears;
    Thy radiant dawn hath driv'n away our fears;
    Thy sun in morning splendor ...

W. M. MacKeracher

Canada, My Land.

    There may be more enchanting climes
        Within a southern zone;
    There may be eastern Edens deckt
        With charms to thee unknown;
    But thou art fairest unto me,
        Because thou art mine own,
            Canada, my land.

    More spacious plains and loftier heights
        In other realms may be,
    And mightier streams than those which bear
        Thy waters to the sea;
    But thou, great handiwork of God,
        Art grandest unto me,
            Canada, my land.

    More glorious records may adorn
        The annals of the past
    Than those which tell the rise and growth
        Of thy dominion vast;
    But I am proudest of the land
        In which my lot is cast,
            Canada, my land.

W. M. MacKeracher

Legend Of The Canadian Robin

Is it Man alone who merits
Immortality or death?
Each created thing inherits
Equal air and common breath.

Souls pass onward: some are ranging
Happy hunting-grounds, and some
Are as joyous, though in changing
Form be altered, language dumb.

Beauteous all, if fur or feather,
Strength or gift of song be theirs;
He who planted all together
Equally their fate prepares.

Like to Time, that dies not, living
Through the change the seasons bring,
So men, dying, are but giving
Life to some fleet foot or wing.

Bird and beast the Savage cherished,
But the Robins loved he best;
O'er the grave where he has perished
They shall thrive and build their nest.

Hunted by the white invader,
Vanish ancient races all;
Yet no ...

John Campbell

Canada, 1882.

"Are hearts here strong enough to found
A glorious people's sway?"
Ask of our rivers as they bound
From hill to plain, or ocean-sound,
If they are strong to-day?
If weakness in their floods be found,
Then may ye answer "Nay!"

"Is union yours? may foeman's might
Your love ne'er break or chain?"
Go see if o'er our land the flight
Of Spring be stayed by blast or blight;
If Fall bring never grain;
If Summer suns deny their light,
Then may our hope be vain!

"Yet far too cramped the narrow space
Your country's rule can own?"
Ah! travel all its bounds and trace
Each Alp unto its fertile base,
Our realm of forests lone,
Our world of prairie, like the face
Of ocean, hardly known!

"Yet for the arts to find a shrine,
Too ro...

John Campbell