John Campbell, Duke of Argyll (1845–1914)

O FORTRESS city, bathed by streams,

Majestic as thy memories great,

Where mountain-floods and forests mate

The grandeur of the glorious dreams,

Born of the hero-hearts who died

In founding here an empire’s pride.

Who hath not known delight, whose feet

Hath paced thy streets, thy terrace way;

From rampart sod or bastion grey

Hath marked thy sea-like river greet

The bright and peopled banks which shine

In front of the far mountain’s line;

Thy glittering roofs below, the play

Of currents where the ships entwine

Their spars, or laden pass away.

As we who joyously once rode

Past guarded gates to trumpet sound,

Along the devious ways that wound

O’er drawbridges, through moats, and showed

The vast St. Lawrence flowing, belt

The Orleans Isle, and seaward melt;

Then by old walls with cannon crowned,

Down stair-like streets, to where we felt

The soft winds blown o’er meadow ground.

Where flows the Charles past wharf and dock,

And Learning from Laval looks down,

And quiet convents grace the town;

There, swift to meet the battle-shock,

Montcalm rushed on; and eddying back

Red slaughter marked the bridge’s track;

See now the shores with lumber brown,

And girt with happy lands which lack

No loveliness of summer’s crown.

Quiet hamlet alleys, border-filled

With purple lilacs, poplars tall,

Where flits the yellow-bird, and fall

The deep eave-shadows. There, when tilled

The peasant’s field or garden bed,

He rests content if o’er his head,

From silver spires, the church bells call

To gorgeous shrines, and prayers that gild

The simple hopes and lives of all.