And I pause in reverie dreamful
By Lake Huron’s liquid tide,
But no primeval forest greets me.
O’er the expansion far and wide
Are dotted homes, reposing peaceful,
Gemmed by river, hill and stream,
Crowned by the sunlight’s golden glory,
Where pagan wigwams once were seen.
ON THE HEADLAND.
It stood on a lonely headland,
Pointing far out to sea,
Braving the storms of centuries,
A venerable giant tree.
No other ones grew near it,
It towered there alone,
As if forever listening
To the ocean’s weary moan.
And phantom, mysterious voices
In its topmost boughs were heard
When the wind sobbed o’er the ocean,
And its giant form was stirred.
It crooned perhaps of a thousand years,
Of a thousand years ago,
When all life was summerladen,
A tender and golden glow.
It stands no more on the headland,
Pointing far out to sea;
It welcomes no more my coming,
It complains no more to me.
It yielded at last to the tempest,
’Twas forever swept away;
Alas, for the vacant places,
Time ever winneth the day.
I stand to-day on the headland,
Looking far out to sea,
Tired of life and the burden
Forever resting on me.
And over the lonely ocean,
The cold clouds roll stern and gray,
Obscuring a tender vision
Of a fair land far away.