Have spied the antlered moose
Cropping the young green spruce,
And watched him till betrayed
By the kingfisher's sharp tirade.
Quitting the bodeful shades
We've run thro' sunnier glades,
And dropping craft and heed
Have bid our paddles speed.
Where the mad rapids chafe
We've shouted, steering safe,—
With sinew tense, nerve keen,
Shot thro' the roar, and seen,
With spirit wild as theirs,
The white waves leap-like hares.
And then, with souls grown clear
In that sweet atmosphere,
With influences serene
Our blood and brain washed clean,
We've idled down the breast
Of broadening tides at rest,