  ’Tis a meadow green as an emerald’s heart In the heart of an emerald wood, And a crystal stream doth loiter and dart Through the sun-smitten solitude. The orioles glance like flashes of fire From foliaged limb to limb, And the harsh frogs pipe in a ceaseless choir From the marsh, when day grows dim. When the grey, cold Dawn in her robes of mist, O’er meadow and wood and stream, Looks forth from her tower of amethyst, She sees the wild duck gleam In the slender reeds that have waded out, Far out, in the sinuous brook, And she hears the loon, like a wary scout, Shrill keen from his secret nook. Long years ago when our fathers first, Fearless and full of hope, With love of venture and wealth athirst, O’er river and mountain slope, To this woodland came, a lakelet lay As bright as a burnished shield, Where now the rivulet waters play, And the loud frogs pipe, concealed. And a wonderful town with its sunward domes, And wondrous people stood, Where the deep mouthed frogs have now their homes, And the wild ducks lurk and brood. Grand were the fronts and the pictured walls Of the Inca’s ancient sway, But the town that stood where the streamlet calls, More wondrous was than they. Not a listless brain nor an idle hand Was there in all that town, But strong defences the people planned, And hewed the great trees down. The rippling stream, with consummate art, In barriers huge they pent, And made their home in the new lake’s heart, And dwelt therein content. But woe to the town and its people all! Earth giveth no deathless joy, And where man’s merciless glances fall The simple they fain destroy. The brutal and covetous Spanish horde That raided the Aztec land, Put its people and chieftains to the sword, Its cities to the brand. And here in this northern wilderness, This wonderful beaver town, That baffled the elemental stress Before our sires went down. Its sinuous streets, its lake, The hunter destroyed and overcast, For a little riches’ sake. He slaughtered the noble beaver kings, And loosened the fettered stream. And now the reeds, like a thousand strings, With music as of a dream, In the night wind mourn the departed lake And the stately beaver town, While the rippling waves in the rushes break, As the stream goes eddying down. And musing here on the grassy site Of the beaver colony, My soul is carried in fancy’s flight To the site of Ville Marie, Where the Hochelagans, or beaver race Of Indians, dwelt of old, Their name renowned from their mountain’s base To where the ocean rolled. Hochelaga the Beaver Meadow meant, And where the beaver dwelt Long since, the white man pitched his tent, And before heaven knelt. He felled the trees and he stayed the tide Of tribesmen rushing down, And, like the beaver, he builded wide And strong a mighty town. The curious skill and the council sage, And the beaver’s love of toil, Became as well his heritage As the broad and fruitful soil. Then honor be to the beaver’s name, And praise to the beaver’s skill, And in the labor that makes for fame May we all prove beavers still. |
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