Montreal.

    (Written in Winter.)

    By thee, fair City, is Mount Royal based,
    Which, though its inward fires are extinct,
    Seems - in the flush of morning, indistinct,
    When misty shadows are across it chased,
    Over its flaky bosom pure and white,
    Which glows and glistens in the early light,
    Seems moved with passion. 'Neath it thou art traced,
    In winter's jewelled brilliancy arrayed,
    With sparkling spire and glassy dome displayed:
    A gem-wrought girdle on a maiden's waist.

W. M. MacKeracher

W. M. MacKeracher was a poet known for his contributions to Canadian literature during the early 20th century. His works often focused on themes of nature, human emotion, and the simplicity of rural life. Though not as widely known as some of his contemporaries, MacKeracher's poetry has been appreciated for its lyrical quality and depth. Much of his work was published in regional journals and anthologies, capturing the essence of Canadian landscapes and the human experience within them. His exact birth and death dates remain obscure.

W. M. MacKeracher

The Beginning Of Winter.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

The Ideal Preacher.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Milton.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Sonnet to Dr. Macvicar.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

English

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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

Outremont.

Far stretched the landscape, fair, without a flaw,
Down to one silver sheet, some stream or cloud,
Through glamorous mists. Midway, an engine ploughed
Across the scene. In meditative awe
I stood and gazed, absorbed in what I saw,
Till sweet-breathed Evening came, the pensive-browed,
And creeping from the city, spread her shroud
Over the sunlit slopes of Outremont.

Soon the mild Indian summer will be past,
November's mists soon flee December's snows;
The trees may perish, and the winter's blast
Wreck the tall windmills; these weak eyes may close;
But ever will that scene continue fast
Fixed in my soul, where richer still it grows.

W. M. MacKeracher

A Walk In Mount Royal Park: Canadian Cities.

Next morning in the Park I took a stroll.
A walk upon Mount Royal is a thing,
Glorious at any time, but most of all
At early morning in the opening spring,
While yet the snow-wreaths to the rock-shelves cling,
And little streamlets lash the steaming side;
While on the air the April breezes fling
An appetizing vigor far and wide,
And make the steep ascent a pleasure and a pride.

The path ascends by stately Ravenscrag,
And past the monument which marks his rest,
Over whose history strange traditions drag
Their spectral robes - his memory's sole behest.
Here for a moment halting, all imprest
With other thoughts than find a ready tongue,
I view the leopard slope, the bristling crest,
The blue beyond, with cloud veils lightly hung,
And glory in a dream o...

W. M. MacKeracher

Quebec.

    Quebec, the gray old city on the hill,
    Lies, with a golden glory on her head,
    Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still,
    Of other days and her belovèd dead.
    The doves are nesting in the cannons grim,
    The flowers bloom where once did run a tide
    Of crimson when the moon rose pale and dim
    Above a field of battle stretching wide.
    Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow
    Of pride in ancient times, her stirring past,
    The strife, the valor of the long ago
    Feels at her heart-strings. Strong and tall, and vast
    She lies, touched with the sunset's golden grace,
    A wondrous softness on her gray old face.

Jean Blewett

A Summer Evening Scene in Chateauguay

    Written In Montreal.

    Often, when the sun is sinking
        O'er the mountain's glowing crest,
    When the earth and heaven are linking
        In that bond of peaceful rest;
    Then, the weary city spurning,
        On this grand repose I gaze,
    And my mind, in fancy turning,
        Dwells on scenes of childhood's days.

    And I float upon the river
        At the selfsame time of day,
    When the sparkling waters quiver
        'Neath the slanting evening ray.
    Day's harsh memories forsaking
        With its jarring and its jest,
    For the soul is but awaking
        As the day is lulled to rest.

    Glimpse of even's glory getting
        As the summer sun serene,
    In his softened splendour setting,

W. M. MacKeracher

The Old Towers Of Mount Royal Or Ville Marie.

On proud Mount Royal's Eastern side,
In view of St. Lawrence's silver tide,
Are two stone towers of masonry rude,
With massive doors of time-darken'd wood:
Traces of loop-holes are in the walls,
While softly across them the sun-light falls;
Around broad meadows, quiet and green,
With grazing cattle - a pastoral scene.

Those towers tell of a time long past,
When the red man roamed o'er regions vast,
And the settlers - men of bold heart and brow -
Had to use the sword as well as the plough;
When women (no lovelier now than then)
Had to do the deeds of undaunted men,
And when higher aims engrossed the heart
Than study of fashions or toilet's art.

A hardy race from beyond the sea
Were those ancient founders of Ville Marie!
The treacherous Sio...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon