Whose cabin is built in the neighboring dell, whose dress is the skin of the doe,
And who tells long tales of his hunting deeds by the hearth-fire’s cheerful glow.
The summit I gain—what soaring trunks—what spreading balloon-like tops!
And see! from the barks of each, the sap, slow welling and limpid, drops;
A thicket I turn—the gleam of a fire strikes sudden upon my view,
And in the midst of the ruddy blaze two kettles of sooty hue,
Whilst bending above, with his sinewy frame, and wielding with ready skill
His ladle amidst the amber depths, proud king of the scene is Will.
The boiling, bubbling liquid! it thickens each moment there,
He stirs it to a whirlpool now, now draws thin threads in air;