The Poetry Corner

Montreal.

By W. M. MacKeracher

(Written in Winter.) All clad in rich hiemal robes By blasts of Boreas plied, The sovereign City of the North Sits in majestic pride; Beside St. Lawrence' noble stream, Hard by his hidden tide, She sits, and rears her head aloft Upon Mount Royal's side. A crown she wears of richest gems, Of purest crystal bright, That sparkle like a maiden's eyes Which dazzle with delight; Not gems that glitter best beneath The courtly lamps by night; But those whose brilliancy appears By morning's purer light. Her sceptre is not mineral Up-gathered from the dust, Nor gold, nor silver, long profaned By man's accursd lust, Nor substance base enough to feel The vitiating rust, But is a crystalled branch of oak Just riven by the gust. "I sit a queen," she proudly says, "From the Atlantic Main To where the Rockies to the sky Their shaggy summits strain, From where St. Lawrence speeds along The ocean wave to gain To where in darkness sleeps the heaven, Unwaked by Phoebus' wain."