ir riches at its feet away:--
Ore-of-iron riches deep stowed
In vaults of rock, for creature king
Of future age to fit the key
Of genius in their ancient locks;
Stowed wealth to bless a nation, whose
Motto: "Onward! Light!" befits it
For that mountain's home, which pierced through
Inchoate night; stowed signet seal,
With which to stamp that fair land's Queen
Of States, whose crested monogram,
With sheaves of wheat entwined, the North
Star scintillates.

Guarding the till
Of treasure, mountain, grim and gray,
Playing with wind and wave, child-lough
And lazy bay--Archaic group
Are they, whose quiet naught details
Of primal epochs; yet, as face
Of man with furrowed wrinkles marked
And seared, suggests his past life's course,
Their presence in itself reveals
The trace of annals which their calm
Conceals. So Mystery's seeds were sown.
Even the simple Indian folk,--
Naive indigene of primitive plain,--
Beheld with minds to quickened thought
Provoked, that single skyward height
Break stark upon the main and called
It "Wey-do-dosh-she-ma-de-nog."
Because, they said, it was the breast
Of Mother Earth, which there arose
To succor spirit souls in quest
Of joyous hunting-grounds, of which
Their wise men tell. And not to them
Alone has nature from this rare
Scene appealed to fancy; for, when
Old Father Time, from out his horn
Of plenty, had poured the years full
Generations high upon the one
To which this legend runs, the white
Man came, bearing a waving stick,
His country's standard, into these
Proemial haunts. The lake, wine-stained,
He called "Vermilion," but the mount
Which broke upon his vision from
Under a chastened moon, he named,
"Jasper," after glories promised
To the kingdom of his own God.

* * * * *

The wild rice bent its fragile stalk
Beneath a crown of ripened grain;
The birch and oak and maple blazed
The Autumn's glory forth, and set aflame
With red and gold, the northland pines,
Perennial green. The light wind's voice
Was muffled in requiem, mournful, low,--
A parting song to Summer, sad, soft,
And measured slow. Timed to the chant
Of death, but tuned to death's sweet hope--
Joy-hope of sorrow born--fair birth,
A freer life of fuller scope!
The sinking sun set all ablush
The bosom of the lake. Upon the edge
Of twilight rode the specter moon--
Swift pinioned bird of noiseless flight--
And hung a halo far above
Mount Wey-do-dos