RECREATION. 53 



MUSINGS AT A LAKE SIDE. 



ISAAC MCLELLAN. 



Morn with its ruddy bloom hath flecked. 

 The eastern skies with spangled gold ; 

 And the resplendent sun displays 

 O'er wooded hills and placid bays 

 And forests where the red deer strays 



His cloudy banner's fold. 

 The gauzy mists that erewhile threw 

 Their veil athwart the pure lake's breast, 

 In wreaths ascend the dome of blue 

 Or twine around the mountain crest 



Their silvery crowns of dew. 



Fair Lake ! so beauteous, so serene, 

 A sapphire gem of purest tint, 

 Set in a frame of emerald green, 

 A framework of the woods that lean 

 Above thee, and their forms imprint ! 

 How sweet a spell upon the mind, 

 Enchantress, doth thy presence throw ! 

 Making man's rugged nature kind, 

 Each hard heart with affection 'glow. 



As on thy tranquil face I gaze, 

 L In fancy, as I pace thy shore, 

 Each winding reach of golden sand, 

 Each pebbled border of thy strand, 



And flowery nooks explore ; 

 Back through the vanished centuries strays 

 My thought to years of yore. 



Here, where the pale-face hunter's skiff 

 Chafes at the shore beneath the cliff, 

 Or spreads the snowy sail to take 

 The fleeting stag that swims the lake ; 

 Here, where his deadly rifle sends 

 The curling smoke and whistling ball ; 

 Or where the angler o'er thee bends, 

 His finny victim to enthrall ; 

 In those past years e're Pilgrim bark 

 Furled the white sail along the coast. 

 The lurking savage, grim and tall, 

 Led out his warlike host. 



Those Indian tribes are here no more ; 



Here their dominion rule is o'er. 



No wigwams by these shores arise, 



No birch canoe the paddle plies. 



A new, a civilized race 



Rules o'er the land and watery space. 



