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"The Overshadowing Pines Alone, Through Which I Roam,
Their Verdure Keep, Although It Darker Looks;
And Hark!
As it comes sighing through the grove,
The exhausted gale, a spirit there awakes
That wild and melancholy music makes."
From the house verandah, the eye plunges westward down the high cape,
following the capricious windings of the Cap Rouge stream far to the
north, or else scans the green uplands of St. Augustin, its white cottages
rising in soft undulations as far as the sight can reach. Over the extreme
point of the southwestern cape hangs a fairy pavilion, like an eagle's
eyrie amongst alpine crags, just a degree more secure than that pensile
old fir tree which you notice at your feet stretching over the chasm;
beneath you the majestic flood, Canada's pride, with a hundred merchantmen
sleeping on its placid waters, and the orb of day dancing blithely over
every ripple. Oh! for a few hours to roam with those we love under these
old pines, to listen to the voices of other years, and cull a fragrant
wreath of those wild flowers which everywhere strew our path.
Is there not enough of nature's charm around this sunny, truly Canadian
home? And how much of the precious metal would many an English duke give
to possess, in his own famed isle, a site of such exquisite beauty? We
confess, we denizens of Quebec, we do feel proud of our Quebec scenery;
not that on comparison we think the less of other localities, but that on
looking round we get to think more of our own.
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