01 July 2017

'Canada to England, July 1st, 1917' by Horace Bray

A 100-year-old poem for the sesquicentennial, written during the dark days of the Great War by Horace Bray of Thamesview, Ontario. A rector's son, the poet enlisted in the Canadian Over-Seas Expeditionary Force at the age of eighteen. He fought in the cavalry at the Ypres salient, and was badly wounded. After recovery, Bray joined the RAF. On July 9, 1918, he was killed in a mid-air collision over Shropshire, England.

This version of the poem is taken from John W. Garvin's anthology Canadian Poems of the Great War (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1918).
We hold the pride You held — and now we give
        New pride to add unto your garnered store,
New deeds beside the old ones, meet to live
        And pass into our hearts forevermore.
We do not boast: but we are proud this day
        That we have stood the stern and sudden test;
We too have done a little in the fray,
        And we have given of our little best.
We too have lost the ones we held most dear,
        And we are linked by a new bond of grief;
We too have fought against and mastered fear,
        We have sought comfort of the same Belief.
Men called you great, and feared your anger just —
        May we too know the strength of noble ire:
As all men honour you because they must,
        Teach us to grasp a little of your fire.
Now we are proud, and thankful that the Day
        That saw your testing, gave to us our trial,
To pay the debt our fathers fain would pay
        And chalk the even score upon the dial.
Mother and daughters now may journey forth
        Comrades in arms, along that better way
That comes with Peace, and things of nobler worth,
        And brings the dawning of a brighter day.
Perchance in days gone by, we thought you cold —
        You may have thought us childish still, and weak —
But now we know; we know your heart of Gold;
        We know the things you felt and could not speak.
And you, mayhap, have learned a little too,
        Of eager youth, impetuous to aid,
Impatient of delay, and quick to do,
       Too young, too ignorant, to be afraid.
O little Mother of the Island Race!
        O Mother-Mistress of the distant seas!
We heard your call, and proudly take our place
        Now by your side, no longer at your knees!
Horace Edgar Kingsmill Bray
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