VACATION VERSE.

BY

W. M. M.

MONTREAL:
"WITNESS" PRINTING HOUSE.
1891.

TO

MR. ROBERT McDOUGALL, B.A.

My Dear Rob.—My intention when I left the country was, as you know, to publish a volume of some size, which should present among its contents the long poem which I wrote during the early part of my last vacation. The design has dwindled until it finds its execution in the publication of this little pamphlet, containing merely passages from that poem. Some of these you heard recited as we strolled together through the fields of the Chateauguay Valley, and were kind enough to approve. My hope is, that, considering the stage of advancement of their author, and remembering the circumstances of his writing (during the intervals of study for a college examination), you will approve all the pieces here presented to you by him; and my further hope is, that you,—you, sweet in song as firm in friendship,—may yet have cause to regard him as one

"Who touch'd a jarring lyre at first,
But ever strove to make it true.'

Your sincere friend,
    W. M. M.

Montreal, October 10th, 1891.

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 of time when earth was young.

I follow by the winding road until,
    By taking at the sweep the northern arm,
I reach the summit. For the topmost hill
    The scenery reserves her chiefest charm;
    The upper sky is clear and light and warm;
The southern peaks that far away I wist,
    Seem close upon me; round their lower form
A shroud is wrapped; their tops, by sunlight kiss'd,
High in mid-air appear and mighty in the mist.

Beneath, the River spreads his glist'ning sheen,
    Spanned by not least of master workmanships,
Which sits as conscious daughter of a queen.
    And here art thou, my city, and thou dip'st
    Thy towers in the mist, whose magic strips
My spirit of the pall Time weaves—in vain;
    Nor Time nor Disappointment can eclipse
Days of young bliss—they must and will remain:
Once more a wonder thou, half city of the brain.

Fair art thou, City of St. Lawrence' Isle;
    Fair, City of the Hundred Spires; the seat
Of the Western Notre Dame, whose towered pile
    Rivals the first, of many a stately street
    And comely mansion, many a garden sweet,
Of Art and Nature, envious to please!—
    Thou of the mountain brow, before whose feet
The Northern Amazon his tribute fees,
Fraught with the waters of five mighty inland seas!

And fair art thou, whilome the Capital—
    Not what thou wert, but yet a gorgeous grave—
Fortress