The full-fed crystal streams from east and west
And south, thy rich-wrought cup filled to the brim,
Till where the northern star soft gilds the rim,
Thy waters, called, o'erbroke at love's behest.
O to have seen thy cataract's white breast,
Rifted with ruth through the lone centuries dim,
For toiling Fundy's wooing tide—for him
To blend thy sylvan calm with world unrest!
Far floods thy bridal brought, fair lake, brave sea!
And late, the wingëd ships—Champlain, De Monts,
With Poutrincourt, and sequent games of war.
Thy marge, now crowned with peaceful husbandry,
And set with England's rose where bloomed fleur d'or,
Still croons all day love's wedded tidal song.