58 LAKE WINANDERMERE.
Fair lakes my own dear land can boast, From inland glade to ocean coast, Through woven copse or thicket green, Their blue eyes deeply fringed are seen; On hillock s side they scoop a nest, Like dew-drops nursed in lily s breast. By Seneca, and lone St. Clair, The mirrored maiden braids her hair, And, guileless, to the searching sun, Turns crystal-breasted Horricon.
Yet couldst thou see our mighty chain, From red Algonquin to the main, Those seas on seas, which, thundering, leap O er strong Niagara s mountain-steep, And bid St. Lawrence hoarsely pour Round Anticosti s trembling shore, Thou, at their side, bright gem, wouldst be Like timid brooklet to the sea, And highest swoln and tempest-tost, Still, as a noteless speck, be lost.
Still, o er thy brow deep memories glide, And spirit-voices stir thy tide, For thou of her art pleased to tell, Queen of the lyre, who loved thee well, And in the Dove s Nest by thy side, Sought from the gazing throng to hide
�� �
