To The Lady Charlotte Rawdon.

FROM THE BANKS OF THE ST. LAWRENCE.     Not many months have now been dreamed away     Since yonder sun, beneath whose evening ray     Our boat glides swiftly past these wooded shores,     Saw me where Trent his mazy current pours,     And Donington's old oaks, to every breeze,     Whisper the tale of by-gone centuries;--     Those oaks, to me as sacred as the groves,     Beneath whose shade the pious Persian roves,     And hears the spirit-voice of sire, or chief,     Or loved mistress, sigh in every leaf.     There, oft, dear Lady, while thy lip hath sung     My own unpolished lays, how proud I've hung     On every tuneful accent! proud to feel.     That notes like mine should have the fate to steal,     As o'er thy hallowing lip they sighed along.     Such breath of passion and such soul of song.     Yes,--I have wondered, like some peasant boy     Who sings, on Sabbath-eve, his strains of joy,     And when he hears the wild, untutored note     Back to his ear on softening echoes float,     Believes it still some answering spirit's tone,     And thinks it all too sweet to be his own!         I dreamt not then that, ere the rolling year     Had filled its circle, I should wander here     In musing awe; should tread this wondrous world,     See all its store of inland waters hurled     In one vast volume down Niagara's steep,     Or calm behold them, in transparent sleep,     Where the blue hills of old Toronto shed     Their evening shadows o'er Ontario's bed;     Should trace the grand Cadaraqui, and glide     Down the white rapids of his lordly tide     Through massy woods, mid islets flowering fair,     And blooming glades, where the first sinful pair     For consolation might have weeping trod,     When banished from the garden of their God,     Oh, Lady! these are miracles, which man,     Caged in the bounds of Europe's pigmy span,     Can scarcely dream of,--which his eye must see     To know how wonderful this world can be!         But lo,--the last tints of the west decline,     And night falls dewy o'er these banks of pine.     Among the reeds, in which our idle boat     Is rocked to rest, the wind's complaining note     Dies like a half-breathed whispering of flutes;     Along the wave the gleaming porpoise shoots,     And I can trace him, like a watery star,[1]     Down the steep current, till he fades afar     Amid the foaming breakers' silvery light.     Where yon rough rapids sparkle through the night.     Here, as along this shadowy bank I stray,     And the smooth glass-snake,[2] glid-o'er my way,     Shows the dim moonlight through his scaly form,     Fancy, with all the scene's enchantment warm,     Hears in the murmur of the nightly breeze     Some Indian Spirit warble words like these:--         From the land beyond the sea,         Whither happy spirits flee;         Where, transformed to sacred doves,[3]         Many a blessed Indian roves         Through the air on wing, as white         As those wondrous stones of light,[4]         Which the eye of morning counts         On the Apalachian mounts,--         Hither oft my flight I take         Over Huron's lucid lake,         Where the wave, as clear as dew,         Sleeps beneath the light canoe,         Which, reflected, floating there,         Looks as if it hung in air.         Then, when I have strayed a while     Through the Manataulin isle,[5]     Breathing all its holy bloom,     Swift I mount me on the plume     Of my Wakon-Bird,[6] and fly     Where, beneath a burning sky,     O'er the bed of Erie's lake     Slumbers many a water-snake,     Wrapt within the web of leaves,     Which the water-lily weaves.[7]     Next I chase the floweret-king     Through his rosy realm of spring;     See him now, while diamond hues     Soft his neck and wings suffuse,     In the leafy chalice sink,     Thirsting for his balmy drink;     Now behold him all on fire,     Lovely in his looks of ire,     Breaking every infant stem,     Scattering every velvet gem,     Where his little tyrant lip     Had not found enough to sip.         Then my playful hand I steep     Where the gold-thread loves to creep,     Cull from thence a tangled wreath,     Words of magic round it breathe,     And the sunny chaplet spread     O'er the sleeping fly-bird's head,     Till, with dreams of honey blest,     Haunted, in his downy nest,     By the garden's fairest spells,     Dewy buds and fragrant bells,     Fancy all his soul embowers     In the fly-bird's heaven of flowers.         Oft, when hoar and silvery flakes     Melt along the ruffled lakes,     When the gray moose sheds his horns,     When the track, at evening, warns     Weary hunters of the way     To the wigwam's cheering ray,     Then, aloft through freezing air,     With the snow-bird soft and fair     As the fleece that heaven flings     O'er his little pearly wings,     Light above the rocks I play,     Where Niagara's starry spray,     Frozen on the cliff, appears     Like a giant's starting tears.     There, amid the island-sedge,     Just upon the cataract's edge,     Where the foot of living man     Never trod since time began,     Lone I sit, at close of day,     While, beneath the golden ray,     Icy columns gleam below,     Feathered round with falling snow,     And an arch of glory springs,     Sparkling as the chain of rings     Round the neck of virgins hung,--     Virgins, who have wandered young     O'er the waters of the west     To the land where spirits rest!     Thus have I charmed, with visionary lay,     The lonely moments of the night away;     And now, fresh daylight o'er the water beams!     Once more, embarked upon the glittering streams,     Our boat flies light along the leafy shore,     Shooting the falls, without a dip of oar     Or breath of zephyr, like the mystic bark     The poet saw, in dreams divinely dark,     Borne, without sails, along the dusky flood,     While on its deck a pilot angel stood,     And, with his wings of living light unfurled,     Coasted the dim shores of another world!     Yet, oh! believe me, mid this mingled maze     Of Nature's beauties, where the fancy strays     From charm to charm, where every floweret's hue     Hath something strange, and every leaf is new,--     I never feel a joy so pure and still     So inly felt, as when some brook or hill,     Or veteran oak, like those remembered well,     Some mountain echo or some wild-flower's smell,     (For, who can say by what small fairy ties     The memory clings to pleasure as it flies?)     Reminds my heart of many a silvan dream     I once indulged by Trent's inspiring stream;     Of all my sunny morns and moonlight nights     On Donington's green lawns and breezy heights.     Whether I trace the tranquil moments o'er     When I have seen thee cull the fruits of lore,     With him, the polished warrior, by thy side,     A sister's idol and a nation's pride!     When thou hast read of heroes, trophied high     In ancient fame, and I have seen thine eye     Turn to the living hero, while it read,     For pure and brightening comments on the dead;--     Or whether memory to my mind recalls     The festal grandeur of those lordly halls,     When guests have met around the sparkling board,     And welcome warmed the cup that luxury poured;     When the bright future Star of England's throne,     With magic smile, hath o'er the banquet shone,     Winning respect, nor claiming what he won,     But tempering greatness, like an evening sun     Whose light the eye can tranquilly admire,     Radiant, but mild, all softness, yet all fire;--     Whatever hue my recollections take,     Even the regret, the very pain they wake     Is mixt with happiness;--but, ah! no more--     Lady! adieu--my heart has lingered o'er     Those vanished times, till all that round me lies,     Stream, banks, and bowers have faded on my eyes!