Then lo! with reverence and pride we saw
The knights of old appear,—Sir Galahads,
None purer, none more brave. They had been known
Till then but as the schoolboys of the camps,
Carefree and merry, warming elder blood
By pranks of diving, reckless climbing feats
Up sheerest precipices. Trackless wilds
Knew them as tenters. The shy beaver heard
Their paddles unafraid. Widely they ranged
The peaks and dales uncharted, seeking risks
For love of danger and the jest with Death.
Skilled by adventure in a score of arts
Their strength they stinted not to all that asked.
Pleasant they were to look on, clean their speech
And honest-eyed the cheerful countenance.
Ewitchi claimed them. His enchantments fell
Upon them in his woods and ridges wild;
He loved and sent them dreams, asleep, awake,
And spun light threads to reach them o'er the world;
All his rare beauty was their heritage,
And in their hearts he left his mystic call.
Yesterday they were children.
Scarcely yet Knew we they needed less our tender care,
Until some grave look or some manly deed
Warned us the soul was ripe. We pondered then.
So came the world's great need and Honour's call,
And silent, modest, up they rose to serve,—
Then in our wonder we beheld them men
And saw the Knights of Arthur's Table stand
Before us in their sacred panoply.
Little they said and naught delayed their going,
Farewells to launch, canoe, fair lake and range,
A tender word to mother, and forth they fared,
As thousands like them fared from lake and stream,
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