Often, when the sun is sinking O'er the mountain's glowing crest, When the earth and heaven are linking In that bond of peaceful rest; Then, the weary city spurning,...
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,...
Could I but strike - a sweeter note Than all from virgin choirs that float, Or harps with cords of gold; A note more soft and more sublime Than she, the sweetest of the Nine, Euterpe's strains unfold!...
The purple lilac with the dark green leaves A subtle perfume spreads o'er fields wherein The meadow-lark with clear full singing cleaves The choral air. The rossignols begin...
We see our Father's hand in all around; In summer's sun, and in cold winter's snow, In leafy wood, on grassy-covered ground, In showers that fall and icy blasts that blow....
The street was brisk, an animated scene, And every man was on some business bent, Absorbed in some employment or intent, Pre-occupied, intelligent and keen....
But now the Summer hastens to its close, And soon will Song a different aspect wear, Sweeping terrific, clad in ghostly snows, And lit by the flash of the Boreal glare, Or, but a poet in his easy chair;...
Now is the time when swallows twitter round, And robin redbreasts carol in the trees, When the grass grows very green on lower ground, And opening buds embalm the buxom breeze,...
I halted at the margin of the wood, For tortuous was the path, and overhead Low branches hung, and roots and fragments rude Of rock hindered the tardy foot. I led My timid horse, that started at our tread...
Come, Summer, come, nor in the south delay; We do thee honor with a longer day; We prize thee more, we better know thy worth; We hold thee dearer in the truer north: Come, Summer, come. ...
How can the man whose uneventful days, Each like the other, are obscurely spent Amid the mill's dead products, keep his gaze Upon a lofty goal serenely bent? Or he who sedulously tells and groups...
It's the Emerald Isle is the beautiful land: There's nothing too good for the Irish. O'er the whole of it, Nature, at heaven's command, Has scattered her charms with a prodigal hand...
Heaven bless this new abode; defend its doors Against the entry of malignant sprites - Gaunt Poverty, pale Sickness, Care that blights; And o'er its thresholds, like the enchanted shores...
The tree, with its leaves in luxuriance shading My path in the tune-yielding time of the year, Now sighs in its dirge, while its foliage, fading, Descends to its sepulchre withered and sere. ...
'Tis true, in midst of all, there may arise For man's society a sudden thirst, A sense of hopeless vacancy which dries The spirit with a loneliness accurst, A longing irresistible to burst...
It was back in Renfrew County, near the Opeongo line, Where the land's all hills and hollows and the hills are clothed with pine, And in the wooded valleys little lakes shine here and there...