THE BIRCHEN CANOE.
In the region of lakes, where the blue waters sleep, My beautiful fabric was built; Light cedars supported its weight on the deep, And its sides with the sunbeams were gilt.
The bright leafy bark of the betula[10] tree A flexible sheathing provides; And the fir’s thready roots drew the parts to agree, And bound down its high swelling sides.
No compass or gavel was used on the bark, No art but the simplest degree; But the structure was finished, and trim to remark, And as light as a sylph’s could be.
Its rim was with tender young roots woven round, Like a pattern of wicker-work rare; And it prest on the waves with as lightsome a bound As a basket suspended in air.
The builder knew well, in his wild merry mood, A smile from his sweet-love to win, And he sung as he sewed the green bark to the wood, Keen ata nee saugein.[11]
The heavens in their brightness and glory below, Were reflected quite plain to the view, And it moved like a swan—with as graceful a show, My beautiful birchen canoe.
The trees on the shore, as I glided along, Seemed rushing a contrary way; And my voyagers lightened their toil with a song, That caused every heart to be gay.
And still as I floated by rock and by shell, My bark raised a murmur aloud, And it danced on the waves as they rose and they fell, Like a fay on a bright summer cloud.
I thought as I passed o’er the liquid expanse, With the landscape in smiling array; How blest I should be, if my life should advance, Thus tranquil and sweetly away.
The skies were serene, not a cloud was in sight, Not an angry surge beat on the shore, And I gazed on the waters, and then on the light, Till my vision could bear it no more.
Oh! long shall I think of those silver-bright lakes, And the scenes they exposed to my view; My friends—and the wishes I formed for their sakes, And my bright yellow birchen canoe.
Sault Ste. Marie, November 12th, 1825.
ON LEAVING THE VILLAGE OF GENEVA
IN 1812.
When acts of affection have soften’d the heart, And taught two fond bosoms in union to glow, Oh! how sweet is the joy that their meetings impart, The pleasures how lively from converse that flow.
But oh! when the warm hand of friendship sincere, Is shook—and those pleasures are soon to be past, How painful the thought, and how galling the fear, That friends are assembled—perhaps for the last.
Yes! such were the pangs I was destined to know, When from thy dear circle I lately withdrew; And I said, as we parted, wherever I go, Oh! think of me often, and I’ll think of you.
’Tis thus we may still, although seas intervene, In fond recollection past pleasures recall, And forget in our dreams of the days that have been, The woes that await us—the ills that befall.
And oft, as ye rove o’er the frequented green, Or pause at high noon, to regale in the shade, Remember how oft with you there I have been, When summer with roses enamelled the glade.
The flowers of your fields, they were lovely and fair, And charmed with their fragrance the hours that are gone, Yet, it had been a desert if you’d not been there, Ye tender and beautiful nymphs of the lawn.
Adieu, smiling circle; wherever I go, In memory still shall I turn to this spot, And cherish thy noble and generous glow, Till virtue, and friendship, and love be forgot.