Works

(From The Gaelic)

The Hern at early morning cries,
Where at Sleve-gail the meadow lies.

Say, D'in's son, whom I love well,
Canst thou thereof the reason tell?
...

With their deep voice, monotonous and slow,
The cannon's thunders roll along the sea;
But 'tis in reverence, and to work no woe
Those sounds here reach the shore and onward flee...

Among white peaks a rock, hewn altar-wise,
Marks the long frontier of our mighty lands.
Apart its dark tremendous sculpture stands,
Too steep for snow, and square against the skies....

(Keewatin.)

A land untamed, whose myriad isles
Are set in branching lakes that vein
Illimitable silent woods,
Voiceful in Fall, when their defiles,
Rich with the birch's golden rain,...

Milicete Legend Of The Ouangond', Or River St. John.

Though the ebbing ocean listens
To Ugond''s throbbing roar,
Calm the conquering flood-tide glistens
Where the river raved before. [1]
...

Away to the west! Westward ho! Westward ho!
Where over the prairies the summer winds blow!

Why known to so few were its rivers and plains,
Where rustle so tall in their ripeness the grains?...