Classic Poem

This is the queen of the hills! All Canada thrills
At the thought of a speed that is almost flight
O'er the elfin mead in the pale moonlight,
As she curves away like a shooting star
Down, down to the snowy fields afar
Through the heart of the mighty hills.

Shouts on the merry hillside! Ah, here is a tide
Of the veriest glee that ever was heard;
The roll of the sea or the flight of a bird
Is tame in the wake of those wilder joys
That spring from the throats of girls and boys
On the vivid toboggan slide.

Now, like an arrowy gleam, the soul of a dream,
She stands at the word of the captain's will
Like a tempest bird on her topmost hill;
All hands are eager, all eyes alight,
Faces are rosy and spirits bright,
In the glance of the moon's pale beam.

Pause they a moment — a hush, now steersman, a push!
And she starts for the plain with one foot to guide,
As a chip that has lain on the stream might ride
When over Niagara's brow it curved
And plunged to the rapids below, unswerved
From the line of its downward rush.

Suddenly, air that was still is a gale on the hill!
All the stars, the wide sky, and the fields besides,
In their mad sweep by are as moving tides;
Even thought is too slow to keep the pace
And lags in the swift toboggan race
Down the long Canadian hill.

On sails the skiff of the snow! The maples below
Are uprising in air while the snow they crush
As onward they bear in their downward rush.
A mile a minute? Oh, that were to crawl;
They never could win in the race at all
Did they not more speedily go.

Slackens the speed of the bird not enough for a word
Or a thought of all this — the flight or the fall —
Unless one would miss the feel of it all,
The sense of the boundless strength of the hills,
The answering shout of the heart that thrills
When the winter's trumpet is heard.

Over hill-terraces vast, our caravel fast —
Like the redman's canoe on St. Laurent's tide,
When it runs the Long Sault — doth buoyantly glide;
Careering apace to the valleys of snow,
The wide-spreading everglades farther below,
The everglades, eerie and vast.

Out on the valley, indeed, somewhat lessens her speed;
Yet she skims o'er the ice of the open pond,
And glides in a trice to the fields beyond;
Goes drifting out where the shadows play
With the moonbeams white, and far away
Till weary, she rests in the mead.

Up to the snow-peak afar is a path to the star,
For there o'er the hill is Jupiter bright,
Majestic and still, the prince of the night;
And the long upward path to the hilltop's verge
Is taken with courage that needs no urge —
The long rising road to the star.

Oh what a picturesque folk! moccasin, jersey and toque;
And they love to climb, since climbing is art,
For life is a hill both to mind and heart,
And jewels of night gem the heavens so clear,
While they climb the height in many-hued gear
Of moccasin, jersey and toque.

All hail to the queen of the hills! The heart wildly thrills
At the thought of a speed that is almost flight,
O'er the elfin mead in the pale moonlight,
And greater the music of life by far
When we climb the sacred road to the star
In Love's mighty heart of the hills.