There is a spot, far from the world's uproar,
Amid great mountains,
Where softly sleeps a lake, to whose still shore
Steal silvery fountains,
That hide beneath the leafy underwood,
And blend their voices with the solitude.

Save where the beaver-meadow's olive sheen
In sunlight glimmers,
On every side, a mass of waving green,
The forest shimmers
And oft re-echoes with the black bear's tread,
That silences the song birds overhead.

Here thickly droops the moss from patriarch trees,
And loons fly wailing.
Here king-birds' screams come hoarsely down the breeze
And hawks are sailing
Above the trees. Here Nature dwells alone,
Of man unknowing, and to man unknown.

Smiling, she rises when the morning air,
The dawn just breaking,
Bids the still woodlands for the day prepare,
And Life, awaking,
Welcomes the Sun, whose bride, the Morn, is kissed
And, blushing, lays aside her veil of mist.

Here Nature with each passing hour reveals