Often, when the sun is sinking
O'er the mountain's glowing crest,
When the earth and heaven are linking
In that bond of peaceful rest;
Then, the weary city spurning,
On this grand repose I gaze,
And my mind, in fancy turning,
Dwells on scenes of childhood's days.
And I float upon the river
At the selfsame time of day,
When the sparkling waters quiver
'Neath the slanting evening ray.
Day's harsh memories forsaking
With its jarring and its jest,
For the soul is but awaking
As the day is lulled to rest.
Glimpse of even's glory getting
As the summer sun serene,
In his softened splendour setting,
Gilds the spires of Ste. Martine;
Glimmers through the silent bushes,
Glances on the birchen stems;
Casts perchance his fitful blushes
On the paddle, dripping gems.
And the hue of gold is deeper
On the cornfields by the stream;
And the sickle of the reaper
Flashes brightly in his beam.
And the fruits, of late commencing
To indue their glowing tint,
Richest beauty are enhancing
As they catch his gentle glint.
Now he greets the gaudy dresses
Of the lightsome Gallic maids,
Rivals through their raven tresses
Eyes of jet beneath their braids
As the peasant party gathers
Gaily for the sportive dance,
As of old have done their fathers
In the sunny vales of France.
But the night is falling thicker,
And the twilight soon will cease,
So I paddle on the quicker
Past where Beauty reigns with Peace;
Where the little brooks deliver
Water laughing in its glee,
Or the murky English River
Mingles with the Chateauguay.