Stretched on a hillside's wooded height, While with faint sigh the breezes blow, We watch the moonbeams' trembling light On Lake Maholé's breast below. Primeval mountains, grouped around, O'ergrown by immemorial pines, The near horizon's circle bound With their black summits' curving lines. And all is silent as the moon— The earth, the waters, and the sky— Save when some solitary loon Wakes the weird echoes with a cry. Here, where man's step hath seldom trod, Where settler's axe hath never rung, We muse unseen except by God— Each nerve to new-born rapture strung. Amid this solemn wilderness 'Twere sweet, dear friend, to dwell awhile, Far from stern labour's daily stress Too rarely solaced by a smile. 'Twere sweet—who knows? beneath yon lake To sink on some tempestuous night, And in an after-world to wake— A world of unimagined light! Peace to such thoughts. The camp-fire's blaze Allures us to our transient home: To-morrow, with the sun's first rays Awaking, onward we will roam. |