The dulcet echoes from the distant hills,
Like fainter horns responsive all the while,
From misty isles, soft-stealing symphonies.
The bright, swift river of the bark canoe,
Threading the prairie ponds of Washtenung,
Thy day of romance wanes. Few summers more,
And the long night will pass away unwaked,
Save by the house-dog, or the village bell;
And she, thy minstrel queen, her ermine dip
In lonelier waters.