Ottawa.

A poem by Nora Pembroke

Hail! to the city sitting as a queen
Enthroned a cataract on either hand,
The voice of many waters in her ears,
And the great river tranquil at her feet,
Smoothing his locks and all his foamy mane
After his wild leap from the rifted rocks,
And while he fawns about her feet, she sits
A young Cybele diademed with towers,
So young yet on her sandals there is blood,
And all the river will not wash it out
Spilt at her feet for being true to her,
So young, and well she doth become her state,
We look, and know her born to be a queen,
Before the mother finger o'er the sea
Touched her, and made her royal with a touch;
For, seated where the thundering waters meet,
Spanned by her fingers, she can lay her hand
On two fair provinces, and call them hers;
Greater than those which swell and pride themselves
In long, loud titles in the older world;
The whirl and hum of industry are here,
And all the fragrance of the enriching pine;
And on the river in the wake of boats
That snort and prance like Neptune's battle steeds,
Pawing the water with impatient steps,
Passes our floating wealth that seeks the sea.

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