Not many months have now been dreamed away

Since yonder sun, beneath whose evening ray

Our boat glides swiftly past these wooded shores,

Saw me where Trent his mazy current pours,

And Donington's old oaks, to every breeze,

Whisper the tale of by-gone centuries;—

Those oaks, to me as sacred as the groves,

Beneath whose shade the pious Persian roves,

And hears the spirit-voice of sire, or chief,

Or loved mistress, sigh in every leaf.

There, oft, dear Lady, while thy lip hath sung

My own unpolished lays, how proud I've hung

On every tuneful accent! proud to feel.

That notes like mine should have the fate to steal,

As o'er thy hallowing lip they sighed along.

Such breath of passion and such soul of song.

Yes,—I have wondered, like some peasant boy

Who sings, on Sabbath-eve, his strains of joy,

And when he hears the wild, untutored note

Back to his ear on softening echoes float,

Believes it still some answering spirit's tone,

And thinks it all too sweet to be his own!

  I dreamt not then that, ere the rolling year

Had filled its circle, I should wander here

In musing awe; should tread this wondrous world,

See all its store of inland waters hurled

In one vast volume down Niagara's steep,

Or calm behold them, in transparent sleep,

Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed

Their evening shadows o'er Ontario's bed;

Should trace the grand Cadaraqui, and glide

Down the white rapids of his lordly tide

Through massy woods, mid islets flowering fair,

And blooming glades, where the first sinful pair

For consolation might have weeping trod,

When banished from the garden of their God,

Oh, Lady! these are miracles, which man,

Caged in the bounds of Europe's pigmy span,

Can scarcely dream of,—which his eye must see

To know how wonderful this world can be!

  But lo,—the last tints of the west decline,

And night falls dewy o'er these banks of pine.

Among the reeds, in which our idle boat

Is rocked to rest, the wind's complaining note

Dies like a half-breathed whispering of flutes;

Along the wave the gleaming porpoise shoots,

And I can trace him, like a watery star,[1]

Down the steep current, till he fades afar

Amid the foaming breakers' silvery light.

Where yon rough rapids sparkle through the night.

Here, as along this shadowy bank I stray,

And the smooth glass-snake,[2] glid-o'er my way,

Shows the dim moonlight through his scaly form,

Fancy, with all the scene's enchantment warm,

Hears in the murmur of the nightly breeze

Some Indian Spirit warble words like these:—

  From the land beyond the sea,

  Whither happy spirits flee;

  Where, transformed to sacred doves,[3]

  Many a blessed Indian roves

  Through the air on wing, as white

  As those wondrous stones of light,[4]

  Which the eye of morning counts

  On the Apalachian mounts,—

  Hither oft my flight I take

  Over Huron's lucid lake,

  Where the wave, as clear as dew,

  Sleeps beneath the light canoe,

  Which, reflected, floating there,

  Looks as if it hung in air.

  Then, when I have strayed a while

Through the Manataulin isle,[5]

Breathing all its holy bloom,

Swift I mount me on the plume

Of my Wakon-Bird,[6] and fly

Where, beneath a burning sky,

O'er the bed of Erie's lake

Slumbers many a water-snake,

Wrapt within the web of leaves,

Which the water-lily weaves.[7]

Next I chase the floweret-king

Through his rosy realm of spring;

See him now, while diamond hues

Soft his neck and wings suffuse,

In the leafy chalice sink,

Thirsting for his balmy drink;

Now behold him all on fire,

Lovely in his looks of ire,

Breaking every infant stem,

Scattering every velvet gem,

Where his little tyrant lip

Had not found enough to sip.

  Then my playful hand I steep

Where the gold-thread loves to creep,

Cull from thence a tangled wreath,

Words of magic round it breathe,

And the sunny chaplet spread

O'er the sleeping fly-bird's head,

Till, with dreams of honey blest,

Haunted, in his downy nest,

By the garden's fairest spells,

Dewy buds and fragrant bells,

Fancy all his soul embowers

In the fly-bird's heaven of flowers.

  Oft, when hoar and silvery flakes

Melt along the ruffled lakes,

When the gray moose sheds his horns,

When the track, at evening, warns

Weary hunters of the way

To the wigwam's cheering ray,

Then, aloft through freezing air,

With the snow-bird soft and fair

As the fleece that heaven flings

O'er his little pearly wings,

Light above the rocks I play,

Where Niagara's starry spray,

Frozen on the cliff, appears

Like a giant's starting tears.

There, amid the island-sedge,

Just upon the cataract's edge,

Where the foot of living man

Never trod since time began,

Lone I sit, at close of day,

While, beneath the golden ray,

Icy columns gleam below,

Feathered round with falling snow,

And an arch of glory springs,

Sparkling as the chain of rings

Round the neck of virgins hung,—

Virgins, who have wandered young

O'er the waters of the west

To the land where spirits rest!

Thus have I charmed, with visionary lay,

The lonely moments of the night away;

And now, fresh daylight o'er the water beams!

Once more, embarked upon the glittering streams,

Our boat flies light along the leafy shore,

Shooting the falls, without a dip of oar

Or breath of zephyr, like the mystic bark

The poet saw, in dreams divinely dark,

Borne, without sails, along the dusky flood,

While on its deck a pilot angel stood,

And, with his wings of living light unfurled,

Coasted the dim shores of another world!

Yet, oh! believe me, mid this mingled maze

Of Nature's beauties, where the fancy strays

From charm to charm, where every floweret's hue

Hath something strange, and every leaf is new,—

I never feel a joy so pure and still

So inly felt, as when some brook or hill,

Or veteran oak, like those remembered well,

Some mountain echo or some wild-flower's smell,

(For, who can say by what small fairy ties

The memory clings to pleasure as it flies?)

Reminds my heart of many a silvan dream

I once indulged by Trent's inspiring stream;

Of all my sunny morns and moonlight nights

On Donington's green lawns and breezy heights.

Whether I trace the tranquil moments o'er

When I have seen thee cull the fruits of lore,

With him, the polished warrior, by thy side,

A sister's idol and a nation's pride!

When thou hast read of heroes, trophied high

In ancient fame, and I have seen thine eye

Turn to the living hero, while it read,

For pure and brightening comments on the dead;—

Or whether memory to my mind recalls

The festal grandeur of those lordly halls,

When guests have met around the sparkling board,

And welcome warmed the cup that luxury poured;

When the bright future Star of England's throne,

With magic smile, hath o'er the banquet shone,

Winning respect, nor claiming what he won,

But tempering greatness, like an evening sun

Whose light the eye can tranquilly admire,

Radiant, but mild, all softness, yet all fire;—

Whatever hue my recollections take,

Even the regret, the very pain they wake

Is mixt with happiness;—but, ah! no more—

Lady! adieu—my heart has lingered o'er

Those vanished times, till all that round me lies,

Stream, banks, and bowers have faded on my eyes!

[1] Anburey, in his Travels, has noticed this shooting illumination which porpoises diffuse at night through the river St. Lawrence,—Vol. i. p. 29.

[2] The glass-snake is brittle and transparent.

[3] "The departed spirit goes into the Country of Souls, where, according to some, it is transformed into a dove."—Charlevoix upon the Traditions and the Religion of the Savages of Canada.

[4] "The mountains appeared to be sprinkled with white stones, which glistened in the sun, and were called by the Indians manetoe aseniah, or spirit-stones."—Mackenzie's Journal.

[5] Manataulin signifies a Place of Spirits, and this island in Lake Huron is held sacred by the Indians.

[6] "The Wakon-Bird, which probably is of the same species with the bird of Paradise, receives its name from the ideas the Indians have of its superior excellence; the Wakon-Bird being, in their language, the Bird of the Great Spirit."—Morse.

[7] The islands of Lake Erie are surrounded to a considerable distance by the large pond-lily, whose leaves spread thickly over the surface of the lake, and form a kind of bed for the water-snakes in summer.