Nor are these stanzas, written at ten, in any degree less remarkable—
“MY NATIVE LAKE.
“Thy verdant banks, thy lucid stream,
Lit by the sun’s resplendent beam,
Reflect each bending tree so light
Upon thy bounding bosom bright.
Could I but see thee once again,
My own, my beautiful Champlain!
“The little isles that deck thy breast,
And calmly on thy bosom rest,