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 accursd 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."