Starlight Lake

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.