And yon lone wigwam’s smoke, are all that cheer the eye.
XIII.
At times the eagle’s scream trills from on high,
At times the pecker taps the mouldering bough,
Or the far raven wakes her boding cry,—
All else is hushed the vast expanses through:
And, ah! they feel in the immensity
Of pathless wilds, around them and below,
As in mid-ocean feels some shipwrecked crew,
Borne wandering onward in the frail canoe.