Green islands, each with leafy crest,
Lay peaceful on the river's breast,
The trees, ere this, had, one by one,
Shook out their leaflets to the sun,
Forming a rustling, waving screen,
While swollen waters rolled between.
The wild deer trooped through woodland path,
And sought the river's strand,
Slight danger then of flashing death,
From roving hunter's hand;
For very seldom was there seen
A hunter of the doomed red race,
Few spots, with miles of bush between,
Marked each a settler's dwelling-place.
No lumberer's axe, no snorting scream
Of fierce, though trained and harnessed steam,
No paddle-wheel's revolving sound,
No raftsman's cheer, no bay of hound
Was heard to break the silent spell
That seemed to rest o'er wood and dell,
All was so new, so in its prime--
An almost perfect solitude,
As if had passed but little time
Since the All Father called it good.
Nature in one thanksgiving psalm,
Gathered each sound that broke the calm.
There was a little clearing there--
A snow white cot--a garden fair--
Where useful plants in order set,
With bergamot and mignonette.
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