Till nerv’d by the loud hostile sounds from the shore
Uprising, she shoots, like a dart, to her brood
Close hid in the water-plants edging the wood.
On this lap of green grass, the white cloth is display’d,
A maple sheds over its golden streak’d shade,
We place cup and trencher—the viands are spread,
Whilst a pile of pine-knots flame a pillar of red,
We slice the rich lemon—the gifts of the spring
Bubbling up in its gray sandy basin, we bring
The white glistening sugar—the butter, like gold,