  In the region of lakes, where the blue waters sleep, My beautiful fabric was built, Light cedars supported its weight on the deep, And its sides with the sunbeams were gilt. The bright leafy bark of the betula tree, A flexible sheathing provides, And the fir's thready roots drew the parts to agree, And bound down its high-swelling sides. No compass or gavel was used on the bark, No art but the simplest degree, But the structure was finished and trim to remark, And as light as a sylph's could be. Its rim is with tender young roots woven round, Like a pattern of wicker-work rare, And it glides o'er the waves with as lightsome a bound, As a basket suspended in air. The heavens in brightness and glory below, Were reflected quite plain to the view, And it moved like a swan, with as lightsome a show, My beautiful birchen canoe! The trees on the shore, as I glided along, Seemed moving a contrary way, And my voyagers lightened their toil with a song, That caused every heart to be gay. And still as I floated by rock and by shell, My bark raised a murmur aloud, And it danced on the waves, as they rose and they fell, Like a fay on a bright summer cloud. I thought, as I passed o'er the liquid expanse, With the landscape in smiling array, How blest I should be, if my life could advance, Thus tranquil and sweetly away. The skies were serene—not a cloud was in sight, Not an angry surge beat on the shore, And I gazed on the waters and then on the light, Till my vision could bear it no more. Oh, long shall I think of those silver-bright lakes, And the scenes they revealed to my view, My friends, and the wishes I formed for their sakes, And my bright yellow birchen canoe! Michilimackinack, September, 1837. |
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