Bend over a silvery pool,
And there we will dwell, dear, defying
Misfortune to tear us apart.
My darling, come to me, I'm dying
To press you again to my heart.




_THE OAK._


Last of its race, beside our college
There stands an Oak Tree, centuries old,
Which, could it voice its stores of knowledge,
Might many a wondrous tale unfold.
It marked the birth of two fair towns,
And mourned the cruel fate of one,
Yet still withstands grim Winter's frowns,
And glories in the Summer sun.

Jacques Cartier passed, its branches under,
Up yonder mount one autumn day,
And viewed, with ever-growing wonder,
The scene that spread beneath him lay.
He was the first from Europe's shore
To pass beneath the Oak Tree's shade,
The first whose vision wandered o'er
Such boundless wealth of stream and glade.