Well named thou art, O little lake
Set in among the hills;
Well named art thou,—each star doth make
Reflected forms that fancies wake
And memory fondly fills.

And nightly on the rugged shore
Each cot with ruddy beam
Lights up thy face from pane and door
And throws a stream of silver o'er
Thy bosom like a dream.

Thy hemlock hills, now dimly grown,
Fling shadows on thy face,
And to their branch the birds have flown,
Except the owl, whose monotone
The listening ear can trace.

There, where the starlight thickly trails
A path across thy wave,
A passing boat a boatman hails
Whose maiden crew still softly sails
As with a pilot brave.

While from thy shore a lithe canoe
Shoots o'er thy bosom fair,
Leaving behind a milk-white view
As when the beaver paddled thru
Thy waters unaware.

Up rides the moon with rosy rim
All silently and still,
Chasing away the shadows dim
That on thy surface seem to swim
Like wood nymphs from the hill.

Now midnight comes, and on thy shore
No boatman plies his way,
The cottage lights shine forth no more
From window-pane or open door
Where yet thy shadows play.
Silent and strangely still is all;
The stars like candles are,
No echoes on the forest fall,—
Each lonely owl hath ceas'd to call
His wood-mate from afar.
Silent and calmly still is all;
Dim Night is monarch now,
His kingdom is the midnight air,
The forests his attendants fair,
Who, at his bidding, bow—
And stand like sentinels asleep
Beneath the moon's wan beam,
Until Aurora fair doth creep
Above the hill where she doth keep
Bright morn with welcome gleam.

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