The Montagnais At Tadoussac.

(From the prose of Parkman.)

The lodges of the Montagnais were there,
Who reaped the harvest of the woods and rocks -
Skins of the moose and cariboo and bear,
Fur of the beaver, marten, otter, fox.
From where the shivering nomad lurks among
The stunted forests south of Hudson's Bay
They piloted their frail canoes along
By many a tributary's devious way;

Then between mountains stern as Teneriffe
Their confluent flotillas glided down
The Saguenay, and pass'd beneath the cliff
Whose shaggy brows athwart the zenith frown,
And reach'd the Bay of Trinity, dark, lone,
And silent as the tide of Acheron.

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 Gold-Miners Of British Columbia.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

War-Ships In Port.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

The Sabbath.

W. M. MacKeracher, Simple Poetry

A Faithful Preacher.

W. M. MacKeracher, 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.

The Coming Of Champlain.

(From the prose of Parkman.)

Up the St. Lawrence with well-weather'd sails
A lonely vessel clove its foaming track.
None hail'd its coming; the white floundering whales
Disported in the Bay of Tadoussac;
The wild duck div'd before its figured prow;
The painted savage spied it from the shore,
And dream'd not that his reign was ended now, -
That that strange ship a new Aeneas bore,

Whose pale-fac'd inconsiderable band
Were pioneers of an aggressive host
Of thousands, millions, filling all the land,
And 'stablishing therein from coast to coast
This civil state, with cities, temples, marts,
Schools, laws and peaceful industries and arts.

W. M. MacKeracher

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

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

Memories

O spirit of the mountain that speaks to us to-night,
Your voice is sad, yet still recalls past visions of delight,
When 'mid the grand old Laurentides, old when the earth was new,
With flying feet we followed the moose and caribou.

And backward rush sweet memories, like fragments of a dream,
We hear the dip of paddle blades, the ripple of the stream,
The mad, mad rush of frightened wings from brake and covert start,
The breathing of the woodland, the throb of nature's heart.

Once more beneath our eager feet the forest carpet springs,
We march through gloomy valleys, where the vesper sparrow sings.
The little minstrel heeds us not, nor stays his plaintive song,
As with our brave coureurs de bois we swiftly pass along.

Again o'er dark Wayagamack, in bark canoe we ...

William Henry Drummond

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

In Camp.

With sable wings wide o'er the land
night sprinkles the dew of the heavens;
And hard by the dark river's strand,
in the midst of a tall, somber forest,
Two camp fires are lighted and beam
on the trunks and the arms of the pine trees.
In the fitful light darkle and gleam
the swarthy-hued faces around them.
And one is the camp of DuLuth,
and the other the camp of Tamdóka.
But few are the jests and uncouth
of the voyageurs over their supper,
While moody and silent the braves
round their fire in a circle sit crouching;
And low is the whisper of leaves
and the sough of the wind in the branches;
And low is the long-winding howl
of the lone wolf afar in the forest;
But shrill is the hoot of the owl,
like a bugle-blast blown in the pine-tops,
And t...

Hanford Lennox Gordon