BY W. C. STUROC.
Once more, my muse! from rest of many a year,
Come forth again and sing, as oft of yore;
Now lead my steps to where the crags appear
In silent grandeur, by the rugged shore,
That skirts the margin of thy waters free,
Lake of my mountain home, loved Sunapee!
Meet invocation! to the pregnant scene,
Where long ere yet the white man’s foot did roam,
Strode wild and free the daring Algonquin;
And where, perchance the stately Metacom
Inspired his braves, with that poetic strain
Which cheered the Wampanoags, but cheered in vain.
Clear mountain mirror! who can tell but thou
Hast borne the red man, in his light canoe,
As fleetly on thy bosom as e’en now
Thou bear’st the pale face o’er thy waters blue;
And who can tell but Nature’s children then
Were rich and happy as the mass of men?
Sweet Granite "Katrine” of this mountain land!
Oh! jewel set amid a scene so fair!
Kearsarge, Ascutney, rise on either hand,
While Gramitham watches with a lover’s care,
And our dark "Ben"* to Croydon sends in glee
A greeting o’er thy silvery breast,
How grand, upon a moonlit eve, to glide
Upon thy waters, ‘twixt the mountains high,
And gaze, within thy azure crystal tide,
On trembling shadows of the earth and sky;
While all is silent, save when trusty oar
Awakes an echo from thy slumbering shore.
Oh! lovely lake, I would commune with thee!
For in thy presence naught of ill is found;
That cares which wed the weary world to me,
May cease to harass with their carking round,
And I awhile ‘midst Nature grandeur stand,
On mount of rapture ‘twixt tire sea and land.
Thy past is curtained by as deep a veil
As shrouds the secrets which we may not reach;
And then, ‘twere wisdom, when our quest doth fail,
To read the lessons which thou now dost teach;
And in thy face, on which we look to-day,
See hopes to cheer us on our onward way.
Roll on, sweet lake! and if perchance thy form
Laves less of earth than floods of Western fame
Yet still we love thee, in the cairn or storm,
And call thee ours by many a kindly name.
No patriot heart but loves the scenes that come
O’er memory’s sea to breathe a tale of "Home."
And when the winter in its frozen thrall
Bind up thy locks in braids of icy wreath,
Forget we not thy cherish'd name to call,
In fitting shadow of the sleep of death!
When golden rays shall o’er our rest still lee,
As morning beams salute thy brow, sweet Sunapee!
* "Ben"—Gaelic for mountain.
Sunapee, (N. H.,) Sept. 6, 1888.
September 19, 1888