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| HERE Nature holds her carnival of Isles, | |
| Steeped in warm sunset all the merry day, | |
| Each nodding tree and floating greenwood smiles, | |
| And moss-crowned monsters move in grim array; | |
| All night the fisher spears his finny prey, | 5 |
| The piny flambeaux reddening the deep | |
| By the dim shore, or up some mimic bay | |
| Like grotesque bandits as they boldly sweep | |
| Upon the startled prey, and stab them while they sleep. | |
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| And many a tale of legendary lore | 10 |
| Is told of these romantic Isles. The feet | |
| Of the red man impressed each wave-zoned shore, | |
| And many an eye of beauty oft did greet | |
| The painted warriors and their birchen fleet, | |
| As they returned with trophies of the slain. | 15 |
| That race hath passed away: their fair retreat | |
| In its primeval loneness smiles again, | |
| Save where some vessel breaks the isle-enwoven chain; | |
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| Save where the echo of the huntsman’s gun | |
| Startles the wild duck from some shallow nook, | 20 |
| Or the swift hounds’ deep baying as they run | |
| Rouses the lounging student from his book; | |
| Or where, assembled by some sedgy brook, | |
| A picnic party, resting in the shade, | |
| Springs forward hastily to catch a look | 25 |
| At the strong steamer, through the watery glade | |
| Ploughing like a huge serpent from its ambuscade. | |
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