On the bosom of a mountain stream.
Such was the grove that lured of yore,
O’erlooking Minnetonka’s shore,
Lured to their deepest woe and joy
A happy maiden and careless boy,—
Lured their feet to its inmost core;
Where still mysterious shadows slept,
While the plenilune from her path above
With liquid amber bathed the grove,
That through the tree-tops trickling crept,