Verses and Rhymes by the way | Page 7

knows on God's fair footstool No shelter there is for crime.
For the rushing, tempting waters, Have got an accusing roar; The
treacherous sweeping eddy Has brought the crime to his door.

Then he lives over and over, That moment of anguished dread, When
the cry arose--awestruck hands Had found and borne oft his dead.
Thus he, conscience-lashed and goaded, Feeling as the murderer feels,
Has reached the last, last spot of earth, The Avenger at his heels
Ah me! to plunge in those swellings, Along with that ghastly face,
Going out on unknown waters In that clinging dread embrace
So he floated on to judgment, What award may meet him there, Who
knows--but his earthly punishment Was greater than he could bear

OTTAWA.
Hail! to the city sitting as a queen Enthroned a cataract on either hand,
The voice of many waters in her ears, And the great river tranquil at her
feet, Smoothing his locks and all his foamy mane After his wild leap
from the rifted rocks, And while he fawns about her feet, she sits A
young Cybele diademed with towers, So young yet on her sandals there
is blood, And all the river will not wash it out Spilt at her feet for being
true to her, So young, and well she doth become her state, We look, and
know her born to be a queen, Before the mother finger o'er the sea
Touched her, and made her royal with a touch; For, seated where the
thundering waters meet, Spanned by her fingers, she can lay her hand
On two fair provinces, and call them hers; Greater than those which
swell and pride themselves In long, loud titles in the older world; The
whirl and hum of industry are here, And all the fragrance of the
enriching pine; And on the river in the wake of boats That snort and
prance like Neptune's battle steeds, Pawing the water with impatient
steps, Passes our floating wealth that seeks the sea.

THE LAKE ALLUMETTE.
"One is not."
Have you seen the beautiful Allumette, The magnificent pine-fringed
lake, In its splendour the sun about to set, Ere the fair lady moon
awake.
The waters are tinged with a golden glow, With rose and ruby and
purple bars; Heaven's mantle flung on the lake below Till it fades off
beneath the stars.
The distant hills, robed in violet mist Of the heavenly hues partake, As

they stand, with the sunlight crowned and kissed, On guard round the
beautiful lake.
Over the waters ride gay little boats, Diamonds flash from the dipping
oars; Laughter and song's mingled melody floats To ripple and die
around the shores.
Life is so gay on the Lake Allumette, Ah me! does its sky ever frown
On a place unmarked, unheeded, and yet In that place my brother went
down.
Sad hearted we sit by Lake Allumette, Who saw him go down in the
wave; And question ourselves in anguished regret, Did we make every
effort to save?
For those who are left, to some one so dear. We tried feebly warning to
set, We have failed, we look with sorrow and fear For woe that must
come by Lake Allumette.

HOW PRINCE ARTHUR WAS WELCOMED TO PEMBROKE.
Do you know the town Pembroke so loyal and long And so worthy the
praise of a poet in song? Nestled down by the lake shore, that ripples
and shines, And hemmed in by the hills with their crowning of pines.
Now this town is that town so wondrous and fair, Long thought to be
but a chateau in the air, Where the sons are all brave and the daughters
all fair.
You may guess what great gladness there rang down the street, Where
the wise and the witty so neighbourly meet, To compare their opinions
to hear something new, As their friends the Athenians of old used to do,
When the news was to all so gracious and good, "There is coming to
see us a Prince of the blood." Then all our good people grew loyalty
wild To show love for the Queen as they welcomed her child.
Straightway counsel was ta'en as to what should be done For to greet as
befitted her Majesty's son, In a way to bring credit and praise to the
town. "We must have an arch at the bridge, and a crown, And
'_Welcome to Arthur_,' arranged all so fine With balsam and tamarack,
spruce and green pine; But the crown shall be flowers, the fairest that
blow, Or are made by deft fingers, from paper you know, And many a
fair one who skilfully weaves Wreaths and garlands, shall bring them
of ripe maple leaves; And then, as 'Jason Gould' that so snug little boat,
The most