Canada and Other Poems — Inside the Classic

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Young, T. F. (Thomas Frederick), -1940 Project Gutenberg 2004 Not confirmed
Canadian poetry Readers of public-domain and historical texts
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Words 24,379
Reading time 106 min
Text sections 3

The catalog record for Canada and Other Poems — Inside the Classic provides practical reading context through 24,379 words, 1 hr 46 min estimated reading time, and 3 detected text sections.

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T. F. Young's 1887 collection of poems, including a preface defending Canadian literature, narrative poems like 'The Hunter and His Hound' and 'Grace Darling,' and a dream-vision poem, reveals a poet self-consciously building a national voice through varied forms and modest, earnest craftsmanship.
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There was a lofty pine I knew; Each morn and eve I passed it by; To such a lofty height it grew, It caught at once each passing eye.

It stood alone, and proudly stood, With straight, and clean, and lofty stem; All other trees it seemed to view, As though it scorn'd to live with them.

Full many a winter's snow had whirl'd About its base, and settl'd there, And many an autumn mist had curl'd About its head, so high in air.

Full many a blast had spent, in vain, Its force, for, ever like a rock, It stood each persevering strain, And long defied the tempest's shock.

But yesternight it crashing fell, And now, this morn, I see it lie. I knew the brave old tree so well, A tear almost bedims my eye.

But brave old trees, like brave old men, Must feel at last the fatal stroke, That dashest them to earth again, Tho' lofty pine, or mighty oak.

I'll miss, old tree, thy lofty stem Outlin'd against the distant sky, But 'tis no gain to fret for them-- For men, or trees, that fall and die.

The grass is wet with heavy dew, The leaves have changed their bright green hue, To brighter red, or golden; The morning sun shines with a glow, As bright and pure as long ago, In time ye left the olden.

One tree is cloth'd with scarlet dress, And one, with brown leaf'd loveliness, Delights the eye that gazes; While others varied tints display, But all, in beauteous array, Delight us, and amaze us.

We see the trees in beauty clad, But still that beauty makes us sad, E'en while we may admire, For death has caus'd that sudden bloom Stern death, the tenant of the tomb, Or funereal pyre.

The ruthless, bitter, biting air Hath dried the life which flourish'd there, Throughout the warmer seasons; The nourishment hath ceas'd to flow Through veins, where once it us'd to go-- Hath ceas'd for diff'rent reasons.

And soon the leaves will strew the ground, And whirl with rustling ardor round, Or lie in heaps together, Their hues of red, of brown, of gold, Will blacken, as they change to mould By action of the weather.

But leaves will grow where once they grew, Will bud, and bloom, and perish too, The same as all the others, As we through youth, and joy, and grief, Must find at last a sure relief, As did our many brothers.

Like in the leaf, no life-blood flows, When frosts of death the fountain close, From which it flow'd, to nourish. And like the leaf, another spring Around us shall her gladness fling; Another life shall flourish.

Our bodies turn to dust or mould. As lifeless as the rocks, and cold, But life's fair Tree is living. And fadeless green leaves we shall be, Because the Fountain of that Tree Eternal life is giving.

Old father Time, his cruel scythe Has swung full oft around, Since last the merry Christmas, bells Rang out their cheerful sound. With cruel vigor he has held His great, impartial sway, And many thousands mown to earth, Who saw last Christmas day.

For some have left this world for aye, Who dwelt with us last year; Glad voices heard amongst us then, We never more shall hear. But still we'll build our Christmas fires, And sing our Christmas songs, And for one day forget our griefs, Our failures and our wrongs.

Then ring, ye joyful bells, ring out; Ye crashing cymbals fall; And for old Christmas, hale and stout, Sound up, ye harps and all. Let music's loud and sweetest strain Beat from our hearts each ill; Let thoughts of those assuage our pain, Who are around us still.

Oh, winsome maid, oh, hearty youth, I urge you on to glee, For, in your innocence and truth, You all are dear to me. Nor youth, nor age should cherish gloom, And voices oft should sing, So give the gladsome voices room, And let the joy-bells ring.

Come now, my Muse, do thou inspire my pen, To sing, with worthy strain, my country's praise, But not to hide the faults within my ken, By tricks of art, or studied, verbal maze, To play on him who reads with careless gaze, To whom each thought upon a printed page. Is gospel truth, nor e'er with wile betrays; From this, oh, steer me clear, nor let the rage Of prejudic'd and narrow minds, my thoughts engage.

T. F. Young opens Canada and Other Poems with a preface that is as much a manifesto as an apology. He writes with “great diffidence,” yet frames his work as a patriotic act: “Like Burns, I wished to do something for my country.” The preface anticipates criticism of “grammatical construction” and “mechanical arrangement,” but asks readers to find “a vein of true poetry glittering here and there.” This self-aware, defensive tone sets expectations for a collection that is earnest, occasional, and deliberately humble in its literary ambitions.

The poems that follow range from descriptive nature pieces to narrative ballads and patriotic verses. Young’s voice is plain and direct, favoring clear storytelling over elaborate imagery. The excerpts show a poet who values moral sentiment and local color, often framing personal loss or heroic action within a simple, rhyming structure.

A Poet’s Apology and National Ambition

Young’s preface is the most revealing part of the collection. He explicitly compares himself to Robert Burns, not in poetic achievement but in intent: to serve his country through verse. He argues that Canadian literature “must grow with our nation,” and that its “crudity” is a natural consequence of Canada’s youth. This is not mere modesty; it is a strategic framing. By lowering expectations, Young invites readers to judge his work leniently while also asserting its cultural importance. The preface thus functions as a critical lens for the entire book. Readers should note how Young’s self-deprecation—calling his poems “humble attempts of my 'prentice hand”—coexists with a firm belief in literature’s power to “cheer, strengthen and ennoble.” This tension between humility and ambition recurs in the poems themselves, where simple subjects (a hunter, a lighthouse rescue) are treated with solemn gravity.

Narrative Ballads and Their Moral Weight

Two narrative poems in the excerpts, “The Hunter and His Hound” and “Grace Darling,” show Young’s preference for straightforward storytelling with a clear moral. In the first, a hunter loses his faithful dog to a buck’s antlers; the dog’s “death yell” and the hunter’s prolonged mourning emphasize loyalty and loss. The second recounts the real-life wreck of the steamer Forfarshire and Grace Darling’s heroic rescue. Young’s version stresses her modesty: “All noble acts, unconsciously / Are done, with pure intent.” Both poems use regular meter and rhyme, and both end with a quiet, almost proverbial reflection. Young does not dramatize emotion; he states it plainly. The hunter “miss’d his voice’s sound”; Grace feels “proud” only for “simple duty done.” These understated endings suggest that Young values restraint over rhetorical flourish, and that his moral lessons are meant to be absorbed rather than declaimed.

The Supernatural and the Startled Self

“A Dream” departs from the collection’s prevailing realism. The speaker is wrenched from sleep by a “dreadful, piercing sound,” then frozen in terror, “transfix’d unto the floor.” The poem dwells on physical sensations—sweat, a “wildly beating heart,” a groan—and the repetition of “dreadful” and “terror” creates a claustrophobic atmosphere. Unlike the narrative poems, this one offers no resolution or moral; it ends with the sound recurring and the speaker still afraid. This shift in register is striking. Young, who elsewhere champions clarity and moral purpose, here indulges in Gothic uncertainty. The poem suggests that his range extends beyond patriotic or domestic subjects into psychological unease. Readers may wonder whether this dream sequence is an anomaly or a hint of a darker sensibility that the rest of the collection mostly suppresses.

Structure, Meter, and the Poet’s Craft

Young’s technical choices are consistent across the excerpts. He favors iambic tetrameter or trimeter, often in alternating rhyme (ABAB or ABCB). His lines are end-stopped, and his vocabulary is plain, with few inversions or archaisms. This regularity gives his poems a ballad-like quality, suitable for oral reading. However, the preface’s admission of possible “grammatical construction” flaws invites scrutiny. In “The Hunter and His Hound,” for instance, the line “But roll’d the waves so high and strong” uses an inverted subject-verb order that may feel forced. Young’s rhymes are generally exact (“hound”/“sound”, “sea”/“thee”), but occasionally slant (“shore”/“more”). These small imperfections align with his self-described “crudity.” Readers interested in craft will find a poet working within strict formal constraints, occasionally straining against them, but always maintaining a clear narrative thread.

Young’s collection rewards a reader who pays attention to its framing. The preface is not mere throat-clearing; it is a key to understanding the poems’ deliberate simplicity and national purpose. The narrative ballads and the anomalous dream poem together suggest a writer experimenting with different modes while anchored by a sincere, unpretentious voice. Approach these poems as artifacts of a particular moment in Canadian literary history—a moment when a poet felt he had to apologize for his country’s youth even as he tried to give it a voice.

I’ve often thought poetry, like memory, drifts on simple images—the hunter’s dog, a flame’s quiet edge. T. F. Young’s Canada and Other Poems holds that earnest, grounded wonder of naming what surrounds us, the way a child speaks to a blossom. That same gentle familiarity lingers in Bird Children: The Little Playmates of the Flower Children — Inside the Classic, where nature’s small voices carry the same unhurried, trusting breath of a bygone century.

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