The lake was still as still could be,
And bright as a warrior’s blade;
And, save the dash of the leaping fish,
Not a waking sound was made.
The lovely bright-eyed Ottawa girl
Hath bent o’er the low canoe,
And smoothed anew her raven hair
In the glass of the shining blue.
And now is at the islet’s edge
The stem of her birchen bark: