Here dark with tangled forest shade,
There yellow with the harvest-ground,
Or emerald with the open glade;
Primeval chestnuts line the strand,
And hemlocks every mountain side,
While, by each passing zephyr fanned,
Azalin flowers kiss the tide.
We nestle in the gliding barge,
And turn from yon o’erarching sky,
To watch, along the bosky marge,