A mellow softness fills the air--
No breeze on wanton wing steals by,
To break the holy quiet there,
Or make the waters fret and sigh.
Or the golden alders shiver,
That bend to kiss the placid river,
Flowing on and on for ever;
But the little waves seem sleeping,
O'er the pebbles slowly creeping,
That last night were flashing, leaping,
Driven by the restless breeze,
In lines of foam beneath yon trees.

Dress'd in robes of gorgeous hue--
Brown and gold with crimson blent,
The forest to the waters blue
Its own enchanting tints has lent.
In their dark depths, life-like glowing,
We see a second forest growing,
Each pictur'd leaf and branch bestowing
A fairy grace on that twin wood,
Mirror'd within the crystal flood.

'Tis pleasant now in forest shades;--
The Indian hunter strings his bow
To track, through dark entangled glades,
The antler'd deer and bounding doe;
Or launch at night his birch canoe,
To spear the finny tribes that dwell
On sandy bank, in weedy cell,