At peace, because the madly-wicked men
Who sought to kindle flames of border war
Have in confusion failed yet, once again,
Their braggart plans dissolved in empty air.
In the Nor' West threat'nings of strife arose,
The muttered thunders all have died away;
Unstained by blood may sleep their mantling snows;
Unmarred by civil strife their wintry day.
War clouds seemed o'er the hapless land to brood,
The warning bugle sounded far abroad;
Red River might have ran with kindred blood,
But Manitoba heard the speaking God.
Our summer skies were clouded dark and low;
'Twas not the blessed rain that bowed them down,
But smoke wreaths rolling heavy, huge, and slow,
And thick as rising from a conquered town.
And where rich crops, and wealthy orchards fair,
Spread to the sun, rustled in breeze of morn,
The fire passed through, and left them black and bare,
Rushing like Samson's foxes through the corn.
Then, like a giant roused, it onward came,
With red arm reaching to the trees on high;
Till the whole landscape in one sheet of flame,
Glowed like a furnace 'neath a brazen sky.
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