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.
Where the lazy brown bear sleeps the warm winter thru,
And beavers build houses and live in comfort, too,
And the lone loon’s shrill cry sounds far off, yet is near,
And the wolf lies in wait for the innocent deer.
Where summer nights are short and winter nights are long,
And the tumbling waters keep up an endless song,
Where the forests are thick and in their native state,
But for the woodman’s ax will not have long to wait.