  You may boast of the haughty three-decker That darkens the deep with her sail, And the shocks of whose thunder majestical Deaden the might of the gale! How she crushes the billows beneath her, The glory and pride of her crew! But give me my light, little bubble, My light, little, tight-built canoe! Her curved frame is wrought of the fir-tree And birch bark, the hue of the sun. As over the carry we trudge along Lizard-like, both seem as one. Though buoyant as air, she is steady When the tempest comes bellowing through;— How she shoots, as the lake roars and whitens, My faithful, tried, speedful canoe! How she steals on the deer in his grazing! And creeps to the trout in his sleep! She vies with the pine-tree’s soft melody; Wakening the lute of the deep. When winter blears bleakly the forest, And the water binds gray to its blue, Safe and sound in her covert I leave her, Till spring calls again my canoe. |
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