To tune the lyre, enraptured muses played;
Or pierce the starry heavens—the blue unknown—
These were the aims of many sons of fame,
Who shook the world with glory's golden song.
I sought a moral meed of less acclaim,
In treading lands remote, and mazes long;
And while around aerial voices ring,
I quaff the limpid cup at Mississippi's spring.
H. R. S.
[165] Narrative of an Expedition to Itasca Lake. Harpers. 1834. 1 vol. 8vo. p. 307.