Le Lac des Morts

LAKE of the Dead ! I find not why
This name is thine, from tale or song :
Living are none who meet the eye,
Morn after morn, these wilds along.

It may be, in an earlier day
Some Indian strife disturb'd the scene ;
And man's red blood, of man the prey,
Mix'd with thine azure waves serene.

It may be, that with maddening yells
These wood-clad shores and isles have rung,
And chiefs, whose name no legend tells,
Dead, in thy rocky depths were flung.

Perchance more late, some hardy crew,
Charged with the northern hunter's spoils,
Freight to far cities yearly due,
Closed in thy breast their earthly toils.

Oft did their bell-toned chorus sound
In strains received from Norman sires :
Oft did the forest glare around
In witness of their nightly fires.

Through many a whirling flood they sent
Fearless and prompt their bark-built boat ;
Anon their single canvas bent
Glad idly in free space to float.

Too venturous once — if thence thy name,
Fair Lake — and have such chances been ?
Ah ! let each lowly cross proclaim
Along this lengthening journey seen.

Lake of the Dead ! thy shores beside,
In evening gloom now gathering fast,
No shadowy forms or phantoms glide,
No shrieks unearthly swell the blast.

Yet if beneath thy lonely waves
The bones of sinful man be spread,
Thou, like old ocean's hidden caves,
Shalt yield thy long-forgotten dead.