by a living Canadian poet--a denizen of the old borough of
Niagara. [Footnote: William Kirby, Esq., in CANADIAN METHODIST
MAGAZINE for May, 1878.]

Two grassy points--not promontories--front
The calm blue lake--the river flows between,
Bearing in its full bosom every drop
Of the wild flood that leaped the cataract.
And swept the rock-walled gorge from end to end.
'Mid flanking eddies, ripples, and returns,
It rushes past the ancient fort that once
Like islet in a lonely ocean stood,
A mark for half a world of savage woods;
With war and siege and deeds of daring wrought
Into its rugged walls--a history
Of heroes, half forgotten, writ in dust.

Two centuries deep lie the foundation stones,
La Salle placed there, on his adventurous quest
Of the wild regions of the boundless west;
Where still the sun sets on his unknown grave.
Three generations passed of war and peace;
The Bourbon lilies grew; brave men stood guard;
And braver still went forth to preach and teach
Th' evangel, in the forest wilderness,
To men fierce as the wolves whose spoils they wore.

Then came a day of change. The summer woods
Were white with English tents, and sap and trench
Crept like a serpent to the battered walls.