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.