With yet a nearer swell! Fresh breeze, awake![299]
And river, darkening ne’er with hues of slaughter
Thy wave’s pure silvery green,—and shining lake,
Spread far before my cabin, with thy zone
Of ancient woods, ye chainless things and lone!
Send voices through the forest aisles, and make
Glad music round me, that my soul may dare,
Cheer’d by such tones, to look back on a dungeon’s air!
II.
O Indian hunter of the desert’s race!