All verdant with meadow, and bristling with grain, From its top, to the edge of the bright liquid plain, Thence the banks, sweeping round to the North and the West, With clearing and field interspersed on their breast, Are lost in the black frowning gloom of the wood That hides, with its shadows, the Southernmost flood. How quiet, how peaceful, how lovely, the scene! The glossy black shades, from yon headlands of green, That sheet of bright crystal, which spreads from the shore, Now dark’ning, as lightly the breeze tramples o’er, Those shafts of quick splendor—these dazzles of light— So painful, so blinding, eyes shrink from the sight; And still, to our fix’d gaze, new colors reveal, Here, gleaming like silver—there, flashing like steel. We hear, in the stillness, the low of the herd, The sound of the sheep-bell, the chirp of the bird, All borne from the opposite border—and hark! How the echoes long mimic the dog’s rapid bark! See that white gleaming streak—’tis the wake of the loon As she oars her swift passage—her dive will be soon; She’s vanish’d—but upward again to the sight, Her dappled back lit by a pencil of light, But the bark has arous’d her—she’s seeking to fly; She stretches her neck, with shrill, tremulous cry, She flounders in low heavy circles just o’er, Till nerv’d by the loud hostile sounds from the shore Uprising, she shoots, like a dart, to her brood Close hid in the water-plants edging the wood. On this lap of green grass, the white cloth is display’d, A maple sheds over its golden streak’d shade, We place cup and trencher—the viands are spread, Whilst a pile of pine-knots flame a pillar of red, We slice the rich lemon—the gifts of the spring Bubbling up in its gray sandy basin, we bring The white glistening sugar—the butter, like gold, And the fruits of the garden, our baskets unfold, The raspberry bowl-shap’d—the jet tiny cone Or the blackberry, pluck’d from the thickets are strown, All grace the grass-table—our cups mantle free With the dark purple coffee, and light amber tea, Wood, water, and bank tongue the laugh, and the jest, And the goddess or mirth reigns supreme in each breast. The sunset is slanting—a pyramid bright Is traced on the waters, in spangles of light; A grey blending glimmer then steals like a pall; Gold, leaves hill and tree-top—brown, deepens o’er all; The bat wheels around—sends the nighthawk his cry, And the cross-bill commences her sweet lullaby; In the grass chirps the cricket—the tree-toad crows shrill, And the bark of the watch-dog sounds faint from the hill. We smile at the hoarse heav’d-up roar of the frog, And his half smother’d gulp as he dives from his log, And then hasten homeward, fatigu’d, but still gay, With the moon’s lustrous silver to brighten our way.