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 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."