Thy life blood flows apace—e’en now thy large soft eye dims in the sleep of death—and _I_ have slain thee. Thou had’st nought other enemy than the gaunt coward wolf, or fanged serpent; him, with light leaping bounds, thou laugh’st to scorn, as his long howl struck on thy quick ear; and the sullen rattler, with many blows of thy tiny polished hoof thou dash’st to pieces, ere from his deadly coil, his flattened head, with glistening tongue and protruded fangs, could reach thee. Oh! I shame me of my miscreant fellowship. E’en the poisonous serpent, with quick vibrating tail, did give thee warning—_I_ stole upon thee unawares. Hunter! take again thy weapon; for thee—’tis thy vocation—perhaps ’tis well—the game is thine. I entreat of thee, let not my innocent victim again reproach my eyesight. So! here is the canoe—we again embark—we rock against the steamer’s side—and now again rush onward in our swift career. Islands glide by us in countless numbers. The frightened trout scales in quick alarm from the splashing waterwheels, while echo, mocking their watery clamour, wakes the old mountains from their sleepy stillness, who again, like drowsy giants, relapse into repose as we leave them far behind us. _Ticonderoga_, we approach thy shore. Ay—true to appointment—here are the horses. Mount—on we go, over hillock and valley, through brake, through brier, through mud, through water, through swamp, through mire; we gallop over the broad green peninsula—leap the entrenchments—thread the lines. Here is the citadel—descend the moat; the wild dank weeds and furze o’ertop our heads. Ay—here’s a chasm—a breach in the ancient walls; spur up—spur up; now we draw rein within the very centre of the blackened ruins. How lovely the view, from the soft undulating promontory—the lake bathing its sides; Horicon’s mountains o’erlooking it on this—the stalwart yeomen of the verdant State, free as the winds, on that! Oh! Ticonderoga, midst these uncultivated wilds—these silent mountains—various and eventful hath been thy history. Ho! Old Time—how calmly strok’st thou thy long greybeard, as seated on the broken ruins, thou ponderest their past! Come! come, old father! ascend this crumbling battlement—lean on my shoulder—I, _as yet_, am straightest—I will hold thy scythe. Now point to me the drama which past generations have acted upon this green peninsula.