LAKE ERIE.

THESE lovely shores! how lone and still! A hundred years ago The unbroken forest stood above, The waters dashed below,— The waters of a lonely sea Where never sail was furled, Embosomed in a wilderness, Which was itself a world.

A hundred years! go back, and, lo! Where, closing in the view, Juts out the shore, with rapid oar Darts round a frail canoe: ’Tis a white voyager, and see, His prow is westward set O’er the calm wave! Hail to thy bold, World-seeking bark, Marquette!

The lonely bird, that picks his food Where rise the waves and sink, At their strange coming, with shrill scream, Starts from the sandy brink; The fishhawk, hanging in mid sky, Floats o’er on level wing, And the savage from his covert looks, With arrow on the string.

A hundred years are past and gone, And all the rocky coast Is turreted with shining towns,— An empire’s noble boast; And the old wilderness is changed To cultured vale and hill; And the circuit of its mountains An empire’s numbers fill!