John Stuart Thomson
The Hebe blush of life is lost; the smile
Of hope from my dim sight Passes away; the hooded face of Prayer Lingers alone o er Earth s cold shrine awhile.
And thou hast ta en my flowers, conspiring Death!
That Love and I had chosen for our speech : Roses for ardour, with a passioned breath;
Lilies for Love s own soul; and unto each Sweet blossom we had given qualities :
Pansies for innocence, because their eyes Are always open wide ; daisies for grace ; Poppies for that rich ease,
That trust of love, whose only words are sighs ; All thou hast ta en, and veiled too e en Love s face !
So seems it now, tried soul ! But from Death s seed Rise Spring ; translated Love ; a hero s crown ; God s face indeed !
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��OUR CANADIAN HERO
E is not dead ! but of that band on high, That host seraphic round the feet of God, Who draw our souls to spurn this earthly sod;
His larger service now breathes forth no sigh;
The Christ, his Lord, he seeth eye to eye. Oh, ye who loved him for the love he gave, Weep, but not always, o er his shell-strewn grave !
The cause grows greater as its martyrs die.
The State is re-born, as each hero lays
His life upon the sacrificial stone. Why rings fair Canada in all men s praise?
Look ! see her rise from blood and bitter moan ! List! God is saying to His Blessed Son: Ypres, and Lens, and Calvary, are one.
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