THE COTTAGE BY THE RIVER
57
Must have been some ship-wreck'd sailor By the angry tempest tossed—Or an aeronaut that landed Who with his balloon was lost.
Doubtless, then, this lonely exile Fought the wild-cat and the bear—Else he'd not have pitched his cabin Forty miles from any where—Far away from habitation— Neither do we often find Houses that are built like this one With the front door on behind!)
Though in this salubrious climate Often lurks the river fogs;—Yet the sweet, halcyon chorus Of the whip-poor-wills and frogs When the twilight shadows gather And the sun sinks in the west—Calms and sooths the fever'd pillow, Lulls the weary into rest.
Then all hail—all hail to Crusoe (Or what ever was his name) Who discovered this fair haven, And in reverence well proclaim
