Montreal.

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 accursed 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.”