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

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 Wheel Of Misfortune.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Sonnet to Dr. Macvicar.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

The Three Hundredth Anniversary Of Milton's Birth.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

Lines Written On A Sabbath Morning.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

English

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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

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

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

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

A Canadian Summer Evening.

The rose-tints have faded from out of the West,
From the Mountain's high peak, from the river's broad breast.
And, silently shadowing valley and rill,
The twilight steals noiselessly over the hill.
Behold, in the blue depths of ether afar,
Now softly emerging each glittering star;
While, later, the moon, placid, solemn and bright,
Floods earth with her tremulous, silvery light.

Hush! list to the Whip-poor-will's soft plaintive notes,
As up from the valley the lonely sound floats,
Inhale the sweet breath of yon shadowy wood
And the wild flowers blooming in hushed solitude.
Start not at the whispering, 'tis but the breeze,
Low rustling, 'mid maple and lonely pine trees,
Or willows and alders that fringe the dark tide
Where canoes of the red men oft silently gli...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Champlain's First Winter And Spring In Quebec.

(From the prose of Parkman.)

I. THE WINTER.

September bade the sail of Pontgravé
Godspeed, and smil'd upon the infant nation;
October deckt the shores and hills with "gay
Prognostics of approaching desolation."
Ere long the forest, steep'd in golden gloom,
Dropt rustling down its shrivel'd festal dress,
And chill November, sombre as the tomb,
Sank on the vast primeval wilderness.

Inexorable winter's iron vice
Gript hard the land, funereal with snow;
The stream was fill'd with grinding drifts of ice;
A fell disease laid twenty Frenchmen low
In death, and left the dauntless leader eight
With whom to hold the New World's fortress gate.


II. THE SPRING.

The purgatory pass'd - the stalactites
That fring'd the cliffs fell...

W. M. MacKeracher