Canada to England
Great names of thy great captains gone before
Beat with our blood, who have that blood of thee;
Raleigh and Grenville, Wolfe, and all the free
Fine souls who dared to front a world in war.
Such only may outreach the envious years
Where feebler crowns and fainter stars remove,
Nurtured in one remembrance and one love
Too high for passion and too stern for tears.
O little isle our fathers held for home,
Not, not alone thy standards and thy hosts
Lead where thy sons shall follow, Mother Land:
Quick as the north wind, ardent as the foam,
Behold, behold the invulnerable ghosts
Of all past greatnesses about thee stand.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Related quotes
Welcome
Prince of the race whose Empire is the Sea,
We welcome thee!
Thy ensign floats above our harbour-mouth.
A fairy’s hand
Has decked the great Queen City of the South.
By arch and roof, in bannered street and stand,
The vast crowd waits.
The cannon thunder greeting from the strand.
But in our hearts a deeper note vibrates—
The loving welcome of a loyal land.
’Tis the same race that from the iron North
Went faring forth,
Flying the flag of England at the fore;
Nor saw again
The masted city, with its ceaseless roar,
The flower-flecked meadow and the leafy lane,
The steepled hill,
Or ivied ruin rising from the plain,
But for a sign that they remembered still,
Built Greater Britains over all the main.
For thee, and her who comes with thee to grace
Our land and race,
Five million hearts beat with a welcome leal,
North, South and West.
Not in a day was built this Commonweal!
Slow, with our lives, we built it; nor confes’t
How stern our fears,
Thro’ drought and flood, in fever and unrest.
Its tale: the courage of laborious years.
And for a seal: the life-blood of our best.
Is she not fair whose morning thrills the East?
Youngest, not least,
Of all those Britains that one isle has sown,
One faith impearled
In world-wide union. We can hold our own—
’Gainst us in vain all envious shafts are hurled
If still we be
The Sons of Freedom, ’neath one flag unfurled,
Co-heirs of Fame and Wardens of the Sea,
One tongue, one race, one heart before the world!
poem by George Essex Evans
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To The Right Honourable The Earl Of Thomond, At Bath
Obrian, were in Story told,
Thy Ancestors wore Crowns of old:
In fair Hibernia's Isle they reign'd;
A Country, by their Sons disdain'd!
Too apt to charge their Native Isle
With ev'ry Vice of Speech and Style:
Yet thy Eliza, great and good,
Of Seymour's, and of Piercy's Blood,
(Whose Ancestors, to Fame well known,
When injur'd, shook the British Throne
Will not thy native Isle deride,
Tho' to an higher Crown ally'd.
And shall Hibernia fear Disgrace,
From Thomond, of Milesian Race?
It ill becomes thee thus to treat
Thy Family's Imperial Seat.
Great Boiroimke! look down and see
This Change in thy Posterity;
Who quit all Titles to thy Throne,
But Hospitality alone.
poem by Mary Barber
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Dear Motherland Of France
DEDICATED TO THE MEN AND WOMEN OF FRANCE
Our Motherland, dear Motherland,
The source of beauty and of Art,
Who but thy children understand
The love which permeates each heart!
We see, through rainbow-tints of tears,
Thy glory of a thousand years.
O country of the Great and Free,
We live for thee, we live for thee,
Dear Motherland of France.
O Motherland, both blithe and brave,
What magic lies in thy name-France!
Yet can thy radiant mien be grave,
And stern thy ever-smiling glance.
And when thy sons and daughters know
That enemies would lay thee low
And dim thy fame on land and sea,
We fight for thee, we fight for thee,
Dear Motherland of France.
Dear Motherland of joy and mirth,
Dear Motherland of faith divine,
A thousand years the wondering earth
Has seen thy star in splendour shine.
Still shall it see that star of France
Its splendour and its light enhance.
Dear Motherland, when it need be
We die for thee, we die for thee,
Dear Motherland of France.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Remember Thee!
Remember thee! yes, while there's life in this heart,
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art;
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers,
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.
Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free,
First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,
But oh! could I love thee more deeply tha now?
No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs,
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons --
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest,
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.
poem by Thomas Moore
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The Greek National Anthem
We knew thee of old,
Oh divinely restored,
By the light of thine eyes
And the light of thy Sword.
From the graves of our slain
Shall thy valour prevail
As we greet thee again --
Hail, Liberty! Hail!
Long time didst thou dwell
Mid the peoples that mourn,
Awaiting some voice
That should bid thee return.
Ah, slow broke that day
And no man dared call,
For the shadow of tyranny
Lay over all:
And we saw thee sad-eyed,
The tears on thy cheeks
While thy raiment was dyed
In the blood of the Greeks.
Yet, behold now thy sons
With impetuous breath
Go forth to the fight
Seeking Freedom or Death.
From the graves of our slain
Shall thy valour prevail
As we greet thee again
Hail, Liberty! Hail!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Temperance Hymn
God of our fathers! Thee we praise;
To-day, our grateful thanks ascend:
Accept these thanks-our cheerful lays
With organ's solemn chantings blend.
Thy grace the wretched drunkard found
Cast out, and weltering in his blood;
Now from his tongue doth praise resound-
He owes that praise to thee, O God!
Restored to virtue by thy hand,
The father, brother, son, arise;
From sin and wo reclaimed, they stand,
And swell thy praise with tearful eyes.
The mother, sister, daughter, too,
With tears of gratitude and praise,
Behold the change, and now, anew,
Receive their friends to their embrace.
No longer poverty and shame-
A sad inheritance-are theirs;
Their altered looks aloud proclaim
A happy change in their affairs.
Thanks, thanks, to thee, O God, we give!
What better tribute can we pay?
'T is on thy bounties that we live;-
We praise thee for this festal day!
poem by John Pierpont
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The Song Of The Standard
Maiden most beautiful, mother most bountiful, lady of lands,
Queen and republican, crowned of the centuries whose years are thy sands,
See for thy sake what we bring to thee, Italy, here in our hands.
This is the banner thy gonfalon, fair in the front of thy fight,
Red from the hearts that were pierced for thee, white as thy mountains are white,
Green as the spring of thy soul everlasting, whose life-blood is light.
Take to thy bosom thy banner, a fair bird fit for the nest,
Feathered for flight into sunrise or sunset, for eastward or west,
Fledged for the flight everlasting, but held yet warm to thy breast.
Gather it close to thee, song-bird or storm-bearer, eagle or dove,
Lift it to sunward, a beacon beneath to the beacon above,
Green as our hope in it, white as our faith in it, red as our love.
Thunder and splendour of lightning are hid in the folds of it furled;
Who shall unroll it but thou, as thy bolt to be handled and hurled,
Out of whose lips is the honey, whose bosom the milk of the world?
Out of thine hands hast thou fed us with pasture of colour and song;
Glory and beauty by birthright to thee as thy garments belong;
Out of thine hands thou shalt give us as surely deliverance from wrong.
Out of thine eyes thou hast shed on us love as a lamp in our night,
Wisdom a lodestar to ships, and remembrance a flame-coloured light;
Out of thine eyes thou shalt shew us as surely the sun-dawn of right.
Turn to us, speak to us, Italy, mother, but once and a word,
None shall not follow thee, none shall not serve thee, not one that has heard;
Twice hast thou spoken a message, and time is athirst for the third.
Kingdom and empire of peoples thou hadst, and thy lordship made one
North sea and south sea and east men and west men that look on the sun;
Spirit was in thee and counsel, when soul in the nations was none.
Banner and beacon thou wast to the centuries of storm-wind and foam,
Ages that clashed in the dark with each other, and years without home;
Empress and prophetess wast thou, and what wilt thou now be, O Rome?
Ah, by the faith and the hope and the love that have need of thee now,
Shines not thy face with the forethought of freedom, and burns not thy brow?
Who is against her but all men? and who is beside her but thou?
Art thou not better than all men? and where shall she turn but to thee?
Lo, not a breath, not a beam, not a beacon from midland to sea;
Freedom cries out for a sign among nations, and none will be free.
England in doubt of her, France in despair of her, all without heart -
Stand on her side in the vanward of ages, and strike on her part!
Strike but one stroke for the love of her love of thee, sweet that thou art!
Take in thy right hand thy banner, a strong staff fit for thine hand;
Forth at the light of it lifted shall foul things flock from the land;
Faster than stars from the sun shall they fly, being lighter than sand.
Green thing to green in the summer makes answer, and rose-tree to rose;
Lily by lily the year becomes perfect; and none of us knows
What thing is fairest of all things on earth as it brightens and blows.
This thing is fairest in all time of all things, in all time is best -
Freedom, that made thee, our mother, and suckled her sons at thy breast;
Take to thy bosom the nations, and there shall the world come to rest.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Otho
I.
Thou wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not be,
Last of the Romans, though thy memory claim
From Brutus his own glory--and on thee
Rests the full splendour of his sacred fame:
Nor he who dared make the foul tyrant quail
Amid his cowering senate with thy name,
Though thou and he were great--it will avail
To thine own fame that Otho’s should not fail.
II.
'Twill wrong thee not—thou wouldst, if thou couldst feel,
Abjure such envious fame--great Otho died
Like thee--he sanctified his country’s steel,
At once the tyrant and tyrannicide,
In his own blood—a deed it was to bring
Tears from all men—though full of gentle pride,
Such pride as from impetuous love may spring,
That will not be refused its offering.
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Jeptha's Daughter
I
Since our Country, our God—Oh my Sire—
Demand that thy daughter expire;
Since thy triumph was brought by thy vow—
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now!
II
And the voice of my mourning is o'er—
And the mountains behold me no more:
If the hand that I love lay me low,
There cannot be pain in the blow!
III
And of this, oh! my Father! be sure—
That the blood of thy child is as pure
As the blessing I beg ere it flow—
And the last thought that soothes me below.
IV
Though the virgins of Salem lament,
Be the judge and the hero unbent!
I have won the great battle for thee,
And my Father and Country are free!
V
When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd—
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd—
Let my memory still be thy pride,
And forget not I smiled as I died!
poem by Byron (1815)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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The Blood of My Brethren
The blood of my brethren
Flows like river to the sea
Painting my eyes red
Turning my thoughts to death
I mourn with great torment
For my fallen brethren
My tears fall so steadily
They wed with the sea
Just as the blood of the lost
So now you know
Why the water around
My emerald isle is so
For the souls of my brethren
And the great sea before you
Have joined in pain and in blood
The blood of my brethren flows
Even today with the sea
As does it flow deep
Within me
poem by Cody Moore
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Kaare's song
KAARE
What wakens the billows, while sleeps the wind?
What looms in the west released?
What kindles the stars, ere day's declined,
Like fires for death's dark feast?
ALL
God aid thee here, our earl,
God aid thee here, our earl,
It is Helga, who comes unto Orkney.
KAARE
What drives the fierce dragon to ride the foam,
While billows with blood are red?
The sea-fowl are shrieking, they seek their home,
And hover around my head.
ALL
God aid thee here, our earl,
God aid thee here, our earl,
It is Helga, who comes unto Orkney.
KAARE
What maiden so strange to the strand draws nigh,
In light with soft music nears?
What is it that makes all the flowers die,
What fills all your eyes with tears?
ALL
God aid thee here, our earl,
God aid thee here, our earl,
It is Helga, who comes unto Orkney.
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Love—thou art high
453
Love—thou art high—
I cannot climb thee—
But, were it Two—
Who know but we—
Taking turns—at the Chimborazo—
Ducal—at last—stand up by thee—
Love—thou are deep—
I cannot cross thee—
But, were there Two
Instead of One—
Rower, and Yacht—some sovereign Summer—
Who knows—but we'd reach the Sun?
Love—thou are Veiled—
A few—behold thee—
Smile—and alter—and prattle—and die—
Bliss—were an Oddity—without thee—
Nicknamed by God—
Eternity—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Sultana's Remonstrance
IT suits thee well to weep,
As thou lookest on the fair land,
Whose sceptre thou hast held
With less than woman's hand.
On yon bright city gaze,
With its white and marble halls,
The glory of its lofty towers,
The strength of its proud walls.
And look to yonder palace,
With its garden of the rose,
With its groves and silver fountains,
Fit for a king's repose.
There is weeping in that city,
And a cry of woe and shame,
There's a whisper of dishonour,
And that whisper is thy name.
And the stranger's feast is spread,
But it is no feast of thine;
In thine own halls accursed lips
Drain the forbidden wine.
And aged men are in the streets,
Who mourn their length of days,
And young knights stand with folded arms,
And eyes they dare not raise.
There is not one whose blood was not
As the waves of ocean free,--
Their fathers died for thy fathers,
They would have died for thee.
Weep not, 'tis mine to weep,
That ever thou wert born,
Alas, that all a mother's love
Is lost in a queen's scorn!
Yet weep, thou less than woman, weep,
Those tears become thine eye,--
It suits thee well to weep the land
For which thou daredst not die.*
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Who Goes Home?
In the city set upon slime and loam
They cry in their parliament 'Who goes home?'
And there comes no answer in arch or dome,
For none in the city of graves goes home.
Yet these shall perish and understand,
For God has pity on this great land.
Men that are men again; who goes home?
Tocsin and trumpeter! Who goes home?
For there's blood on the field and blood on the foam
And blood on the body when Man goes home.
And a voice valedictory . . . Who is for Victory?
Who is for Liberty? Who goes home?
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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O Lord My God! - -Carl Boberg
O Lord my God!
When I in awesome wonder
consider all the worlds
Thy hands have made
I see the stars,
I hear the rolling thunder,
The power throughout the universe displayed
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee;
How great Thou art, how great thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
When through the woods and forest glades I wander
And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees;
When I look down from lofty mountain grandeur
And hear the brook and feel the geltle breeze;
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee;
How great Thou art, how great thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
And when I think that God, His Son not sparing,
Sent Him to die, I scarce can take it in; -
That on the cross my burden gladly bearing,
He bled to take away my sin; -
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee;
How great Thou art, how great thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
When Christ shall come with shout of acclamation
And take me home, what joy shall fill my heart!
Then I shall bow in humble adoration
And there proclaim, My God, How great Thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee;
How great Thou art, how great thou art!
Then sings my soul, my Savior God to Thee,
How great Thou art, how great Thou art!
poem by Sangnam Nam
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Who Goes Home?
In the city set upon slime and loam
They cry in their parliament 'Who goes home?'
And there comes no answer in arch or dome,
For none in the city of graves goes home.
Yet these shall perish and understand,
For God has pity on this great land.
Men that are men again; who goes home?
Tocsin and trumpeter! Who goes home?
For there's blood on the field and blood on the foam
And blood on the body when Man goes home.
And a voice valedictory . . . Who is for Victory?
Who is for Liberty? Who goes home?
poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Christmas Lullaby
Are you far away from home
This dark and lonely night
Tell me what best would help
To ease your mind
Someone to give
Direction for this unfamiliar road
Or one who says, follow me and i
Will lead you home.
How beautiful
How precious
The savior of all
To love so
Completely
The loneliest soul
How gently
How tenderly
He says to one and all,
Child you can follow me an
I will lead you home
Trust me and follow me
And I will lead you home.
Be near me, lord jesus
I ask thee to stay
Close by me forever
And love me I pray
Bless all the dear children
In thy tender care
And take us to heaven
To live with thee there
Take us to heaven
To live with thee there
song performed by by Amy Grant
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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No Gospel like this Feast
No Gospel like this Feast
Spread for Thy Church by Thee;
Nor prophet nor evangelist
Preach the glad news so free.
All our Redemption cost,
All our Redemption won;
All it has won for us, the lost—
All it cost Thee, the Son;--
Thine was the bitter price,
Ours is the free gift given;
Thine was the Blood of Sacrifice,
Ours is the wine of Heaven!
For Thee, the burning thirst,
The shame, the mortal strife,
The broken heart, the side transpierced;
To us, the Bread of Life!
To Thee, our curse and doom
Wrapt round Thee with our sin;
The horror of that mid-day gloom,
The deeper night within.
To us, Thy home in light,
Thy “Come, ye blessed, come!”
Thy bridal raiment pure and white,
Thy Father’s welcome home.
Here we would rest midway,
As on a sacred height,
That darkest and that brightest Day
Meeting before our sight;
From that dark depth of woes
Thy love for us hath trod,
Up to the heights of blest repose
Thy love prepares with God:
Till, from self’s chains released,
One sight alone we see—
Still at the Cross, as at the Feast,
Behold Thee, only Thee!
poem by Elizabeth Rundle Charles (1863)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Lift Every Voice and Sing
Lift ev'ry voice and sing,
Till earth and heaven ring,
Ring with the harmonies of Liberty;
Let our rejoicing rise
High as the list'ning skies,
Let it resound loud as the rolling sea.
Sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us,
Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us;
Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,
Let us march on till victory is won.
Stony the road we trod,
Bitter the chast'ning rod,
Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;
Yet with a steady beat,
Have not our weary feet
Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?
We have come over a way that with tears has been watered.
We have come, treading our path through the blood of the slaughtered,
Out from the gloomy past,
Till now we stand at last
Where the white gleam of our bright star is cast.
God of our weary years,
God of our silent tears,
Thou who hast brought us thus far on the way;
Thou who hast by Thy might,
Led us into the light,
Keep us forever in the path, we pray.
Lest our feet stray from the places, our God, where we met Thee,
Lest our hearts, drunk with the wine of the world, we forget Thee;
Shadowed beneath Thy hand,
May we forever stand,
True to our God,
True to our native land.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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Elusiveness of Love
oh Divine love, Oh divine love,
why do thee seem elusive,
why do thee seem so difficult to be found,
people sought for Nirvana, Moksha, salavation and a handful of them attain it,
but oh dear love, thee seems elusive in thine eyes,
reflection of my younger days tells me of love and its great works,
wherein i read of love overwhelming over evrything,
as i read my Holy book 'The Bible', it tells me of the love which never failed,
love being kind,
love being gentle,
love being not self seeking,
love being not rebellious,
love being not rude,
and love standing all the test of time...
and believing love was created by God to triumph over hate, despise, envy, discontent, resentment, slanders,
conspires, rebellism, covetousness, trails, tribulations......
those great words drives me to the land of imaginations,
and i fancy myself of being a part of love and a guardian,
i' am old enough now,
and i love,
and i stand in that same phase,
which i fancied once as a child,
but the heroism of the fantasy land doesn't seem to work on me as of now,
as i stand, i shiver and shudder,
cause love don't love thee,
love don't embrace thee,
love afflicts thee,
love agonize thee,
love leads me to anguishness,
but i still try to stand,
though love don't love thee,
cos i believe one day love will triumph,
love and love will remain,
when everything perishes,
how great love is,
though seems elusive.
though seems elusive.
poem by Sukkum Chang
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