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The St. Lawrence.
By W. M. MacKeracher
Though like Ulysses, fam'd of old,
I travell'd, or the wandering Jew,
No nobler sight could I behold
Than one which daily meets my view,
This mighty stream, my country's pride,
St. Lawrence' broad, majestic tide.
By Babylonia's waters, 'mong
Unwonted scenes, disconsolate,
Their harps upon the willows hung,
The Jewish exiles weeping sate,
Recall'd the river of their land,
And yearn'd to tread its winding strand.
When stern Elisha bade him lave
Seven times in Jordan and be clean,
His Syrian upland's flashing wave
Seem'd better to the Damascene.
"Albana, Pharpar far excel,"
He said, "the streams of Israel."
In India Ganges was rever'd,
In Egypt worshipp'd was the Nile,
To Romans Tiber was endear'd
From Apennine to Sacred Isle;
And Rhine and Danube, Thames and Rhone
A people's votive love have known.
And we to this imposing flood
A cordial homage needs must pay,
Who in the solemn night have stood
Upon its banks, and day by day
Been fill'd with gladness to behold
Its floor of silver flush'd with gold.
It brings the nations to our marts,
It bears our commerce to the sea,
Has virtue, too, to cleanse our hearts,
And make our spirits strong and free;
It flows, our struggling lives to bless,
With volume, grace and cheerfulness.
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