gone
Along the silent Richelieu;
The night came down, we thought of rest;
A threatening cloud hung in the west.

No warning sound the river made
Save for the rapid's muffled roar,
As 'neath the pine-trees' deepening shade
We camped upon that luckless shore;
No sound the night-wind bore to me
Save one weird echo from Chambly.

The night grew dark and darker still,
The pale-faced moon was hid from sight,
When o'er the waters black and chill
We saw a ghastly, gleaming light,—-
A fitful fire, pale and blue,
That burned my inmost spirit through.

And like some baleful gleaming eye
It shone beneath night's heavy pall;
Then high above the loon's lone cry
Afar we heard the spirit call;
It called us from the other shore.
Ah, Jean will never hear it more!

I could not seize or hold him back,
For while the light burned pale and blue,
A heavy hand from out the black
Held me beside my own canoe,
And ere I stirred, the other barque
Had silent sped into the dark.

Adown the river's drifting tide
To where the wild, mad rapids run,
Past pine-trees towering on each side
His frail canoe had drifted on;
He did not look to left or right
But gazed upon that hell-born light.

And ever swifter with the flow
He drifted where the rapids play,
His eyes still on that awful glow;
Ah, God! my life seemed snatched away!
I saw a gleam far up the sky
And heard the echo of a cry.

There's a spirit in the rapid, calling, calling through the night,
There's a gleam upon the water, burning pale and burning bright.
Woe to him who hears the calling! Woe to him who sees the light!

The Snowdrift

The snowflakes fell on a mountain peak,
Where the rocks were bare and the winds were bleak,
And at first they clung to the mountain's breast,
But soon they fell from its lofty crest,
And stained and soiled was the new-born snow
When it reached the valley far down below.

But up on the height one drift alone
Still firmly clung to the rugged stone,
And men in the gloomy vale below
Looked up and gazed on the shining snow,
And their darkened souls drank in the light
From the gleaming snow on the mountain height.

Unstained by the grime of the earthly vale,
Its white breast firm in the strongest gale,
It bravely clung to its lofty height
And gleamed afar with its glorious light,
Till kissed by the sun and the summer rain,
It rose in mist to the skies again.

On Mount Royal

I climb its sides when the day grows old
And its mighty shadow