Guard Of The Eastern Gate

Halifax sits on her hills by the sea
    In the might of her pride, -
Invincible, terrible, beautiful, she
    With a sword at her side.

To right and to left of her, battlements rear
    And fortresses frown;
While she sits on her throne without favour or fear
    With her cannon as crown.

Coast guard and sentinel, watch of the weal
    Of a nation she keeps;
But her hand is encased in a gauntlet of steel,
    And her thunder but sleeps.

Emily Pauline Johnson

Emily Pauline Johnson was a Canadian poet of mixed Mohawk and English heritage. She was born on March 10, 1861, on the Six Nations Reserve near Brantford, Ontario. Johnson became known for her performances, where she often wore a traditional Mohawk dress. Her published works include poetry, short stories, and essays that explore themes of identity, cultural heritage, and nature. She passed away on March 7, 1913, in Vancouver, British Columbia.

Emily Pauline Johnson

Workworn

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

Overlooked

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

Your Mirror Frame

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

Fasting

Emily Pauline Johnson, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Canada

(ACROSTIC)

Crown of her, young Vancouver; crest of her, old Quebec;
Atlantic and far Pacific sweeping her, keel to deck.
North of her, ice and arctics; southward a rival's stealth;
Aloft, her Empire's pennant; below, her nation's wealth.
Daughter of men and markets, bearing within her hold,
Appraised at highest value, cargoes of grain and gold.

Emily Pauline Johnson

The Sleeping Giant

(THUNDER BAY, LAKE SUPERIOR)

When did you sink to your dreamless sleep
    Out there in your thunder bed?
Where the tempests sweep,
And the waters leap,
    And the storms rage overhead.

Were you lying there on your couch alone
    Ere Egypt and Rome were born?
Ere the Age of Stone,
Or the world had known
    The Man with the Crown of Thorn.

The winds screech down from the open west,
    And the thunders beat and break
On the amethyst
Of your rugged breast, -
    But you never arise or wake.

You have locked your past, and you keep the key
    In your heart 'neath the westing sun,
Where the mighty sea
And its shores will be
    Storm-swept till the world is done.

Emily Pauline Johnson

The Coming Of The Princess

I.


Break dull November skies, and make
Sunshine over wood and lake,
And fill your cells of frosty air
With thousand, thousand welcomes to the Princely pair!
The land and the sea are alight for them;
The wrinkled face of old Winter is bright for them;
The honour and pride of a race
Secure in their dwelling place,
Steadfast and stern as the rocks that guard her,
Tremble and thrill and leap in their veins,
As the blood of one man through the beacon-lit border!
Like a fire, like a flame,
At the sound of her name,
As the smoky-throated cannon mutter it,
As the smiling lips of a nation utter it,
And a hundred rock-lights write it in fire!
Daughter of Empires, the Lady of Lome,
Back through the mists of dim centuries borne,
None nobler, non...

Kate Seymour Maclean

Calgary Of The Plains

Not of the seething cities with their swarming human hives,
Their fetid airs, their reeking streets, their dwarfed and poisoned lives,
Not of the buried yesterdays, but of the days to be,
The glory and the gateway of the yellow West is she.

The Northern Lights dance down her plains with soft and silvery feet,
The sunrise gilds her prairies when the dawn and daylight meet;
Along her level lands the fitful southern breezes sweep,
And beyond her western windows the sublime old mountains sleep.

The Redman haunts her portals, and the Paleface treads her streets,
The Indian's stealthy footstep with the course of commerce meets,
And hunters whisper vaguely of the half forgotten tales
Of phantom herds of bison lurking on her midnight trails.

Not hers the lore of olden l...

Emily Pauline Johnson

Honour's Martyr.

The moon is full this winter night;
The stars are clear, though few;
And every window glistens bright
With leaves of frozen dew.

The sweet moon through your lattice gleams,
And lights your room like day;
And there you pass, in happy dreams,
The peaceful hours away!

While I, with effort hardly quelling
The anguish in my breast,
Wander about the silent dwelling,
And cannot think of rest.

The old clock in the gloomy hall
Ticks on, from hour to hour;
And every time its measured call
Seems lingering slow and slower:

And, oh, how slow that keen-eyed star
Has tracked the chilly gray!
What, watching yet! how very far
The morning lies away!

Without your chamber door I stand;
Love, are you slumbering still?
My ...

Emily Bronte

Montreal.

    (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 accursèd ...

W. M. MacKeracher