We shall look no more upon;
And though, perchance, some stately pile
May rise its place to fill,
With carven piers and lofty towers,
Old Church, we shall miss thee still!

Though not like Europe's ancient fanes,
Moss-grown and ivied o'er
Bearing long centuries' darkened stains
On belfry and turrets hoar--
A hundred years and more hast thou
Thy shadow o'er us cast;
And we claim thee in our country's youth
As a land-mark of the past.

Thou'st seen the glittering Fleur-de-lys
Fling out its folds on high
From old Dalhousie's* fortress hill,
Against the morning sky;
And, later, the gleam of an English flag
From its cannon-crowned brow,--
That flag which, despite the changing years,
Floateth proudly o'er us now.

Thou'st seen the dark-browed Indians, too,
Thronging each narrow street,
In their garb so strangely picturesque,
Their gaily moccassined feet;
And beside them gentle helpmates stood,
Dark-hued, with soft black eyes,