Lake after lake interminably gleam:
And past those settlers’ haunts the eye might roam
Where earth’s unliving silence all would seem;
Save where on rocks the beaver built his dome,
Or buffalo remote lowed far from human home.
III.
But silent not that adverse eastern path,
Which saw Aurora’s hills the horizon crown;
There was the river heard, in bed of wrath
(A precipice of foam from mountains brown),