Thy plan is best, though it may not agree

With my conceptions of my needs and rights,

And faith may fail to scale its azure heights;

Yet still I trust, and leave my cause with Thee.

With single eye I sought to do Thy will.

I felt Thy smile and left results with Thee;

If they have failed, then that is naught to me—

I did my part, and am Thy servant still.

The hearts of men are in Thy mighty hand;

Naught is concealed from Thy all-searching sight;

Canst Thou not turn them to the left or right?

The raging ocean calms at Thy command.

The aching clay may circumscribe my sphere;

Yet in confinement I may labor still

In work which harmonizes with Thy will,

And e'er rejoice to have my Master near.

Thoughts of Thy love will yet remain with me,

And in my silent hours may shape assume,

And by their measures help to lift the gloom

Of this dark world, and bring men nearer Thee.

Whate'er may come, I will not, Lord, complain;

My plan is Thine, I have no other choice.

In work or rest 'tis meet I should rejoice;

Contentment in my lot is blessed gain.

Dear Canada, our native land,

Our love for thee grows day by day;

Our fathers left the olden strand,

O'er sea and rapids made their way,

And by their energy and skill

They laid thy firm foundation deep,

And sowed the seed o'er vale and hill

Which we, their sons, are called to reap.

The wilderness blooms as the rose;

The old-time hardships are unknown;

And wealth in streams of commerce flows

From sea to sea—a nation grown—

Still youthful, but with thews of steel

To throttle foes that may arise;

Yet loving touch sore hearts to heal,

And lift us nearer to the skies.

We cannot boast as blue a sky

As smiles o'er many an Alpine plain,

Nor are our mountain peaks as high

As theirs, yet we have other gain;

Our hills are rich in yellow gold,

Our plains are broad and fertile too;

Our lakes and streams hold wealth untold,

And grander forests never grew.

Our sky is bright to healthy eyes;

Pure ozone lades the air we breathe;

Our climate we have learned to prize;

Nor do we o'er our winters grieve;

For nature throws her ermine robe

O'er purple hills and vales as well;

No portion of this earthly globe

As gay as this, with sleigh and bell.

But soon the winter wears away,

And plants long sheltered now are seen,

And April showers and smiling May

Soon clothe the earth in living green.

Monotony is thus unknown—

Each season is a glad surprise,

In which God's truth and love are shown,

And hope within us never dies.

Our sons, inured to noble toil,

Grow strong in arm and broad in mind;

Some stay at home to till the soil,

Others in various callings find

Their missions—but where'er their place

In the great drama of our day,

They, as a class, win in the race,

And the behests of Heaven obey.

The gold of monarchy have we,

Without the useless silt and dross;

And like our cousins, all are free,

Yet we have no election boss.

No union here of Church and State,

Yet Church and State full well agree

That nations never can be great

If they refuse to bow the knee.

We make the nation's weal or woe,

As one may shape his future life.

"God's mill," 'tis said, "grinds fine, tho' slow,"

A fact lost sight of in the strife

For place and power in Church and State,

And think God cares not what we do;

But to our doubt he whispers "wait,"

And time proves Him both just and true.

From England and from sunny France

Our fathers came, long years ago;

On Abraham's plain with sword and lance

They fought as foes—gave blow for blow.

The victors and the conquered now

Recall that day with mutual pride;

To their grand destiny all bow,

And as true peers, stand side by side.

So give me Canada before

The fairest land beneath the sky.

We stretch our arms from shore to shore

And all are free, both low and high;

An infant nation yet, 'tis true,

But strong in muscle and in nerve,

We hold our own, give all their due,

And God's great purpose humbly serve.

The fields lie bare before me now,

The fruit is gathered in,

Not even seen a grazing cow,

Nor heard the blackbird's din.

The heath is brown, and ivy pale,

The woodbine berries red,

And withered leaves borne on the gale

Sink down on peaty bed.

At morn the fence was covered o'er

With a pale sheet of rime;

The earth was like a marble floor,

But now is turned to grime.

For Autumn rains are falling fast,

And swells the running brook;

The Indian Summer, too, is past;