O beauteous lake, thy gorgeous size, To us doth prove that God is wise, Thy copper, aye more, Thy iron ore, Is the best found in all the earth; Thy waters flow thru one river, And enrich thy shores of silver; So great art thou, none know thy worth. O richest lake, thy wondrous beauty, Makes praise to God become our duty, Thy waters clear, And pure atmosphere, Strengthen many an invalid; Thou givest wealth to man his portion, Then ebb and flow just like an ocean, We rejoice, great sea, thy wealth’s not hid. THE DUNDAS VALLEY. A few miles west of Hamilton, Ontario, is one of the most beautiful sections of country it has ever been my pleasure to see. The Grand Trunk Railway cars run along the side of Dundas Mountain for several miles, and the view of the valley from the cars is magnificent. In passing over this route in the summer of 1892 I was charmed by the view and inspired to write the following little poem. Hills above hills in beauty rise, And mark their outline on the skies, And close inspection shows that man Is helping on the mighty plan. Here valleys deep, and valleys wide, And gushing streams from mountain side, Present, o’ercapped by dome of blue, A splendid panoramic view. THE ST. CLAIR RIVER. O beautiful river, I have longed for the hour, My muse would awaken and give me the power, To ring out the key note and tune my sweet lyre, To sing of thy glory with spirit and fire. Oft charmed by thy beauty, and amazed at thy size, I’ve gazed on thy grandeur with keen wondering eyes, Watched thy clear blue waters as they slowly pass by, Reflecting true pictures of the clouds in the sky. So deep is thy bottom and so broad is thy stream, Thy volume is greater than thy looks make it seem, Tho slow is thy current, great force there is in it, Moving a million tons of water each minute. Many are the sources that provide the supply, That keeps this great river from ever running dry, The inflow and outflow do so nearly conform, That the river’s level is very uniform. Far away in the north, in the land of the moose, In the cool summer home of the fleety wild goose, Where the valleys are deep and the mountain tops are white, And the snow rarely melts above a certain height. Where springs burst from the hills and trickle down their sides, And enlarge into brooks that go to swell the tides, And joining rivulets from the dissolving snow, Are gathered into lakes in the basins below. Where the small lakes are brown like the rocks on their shores, And tho they are numbered by near an hundred scores, And pour their dark waters into large lakes of blue, The larger lakes remain unto their color true.