To Seneca Lake

Wide its heavy burden sailing,
Deepens as the day is failing,
Our thy fair bosom, silver lake,
Fast the gloom of night.
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,
Slow the blood-stain'd moon is riding
And round his breast the ripples break,
Through the still and hazy air,
As down he bears before the gale.
Like a sheeted spectre gliding
In a torch's glare: —
On thy fair bosom, waveless stream,
Few the hours, her light is given —
The dipping paddle echoes far,
Mingling clouds of tempest driven
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
O'er the mourning face of heaven,
And bright reflects the polar star.
The waves along thy pebbly shore,
All is blackness there.
As blows the north-wind, heave their foam,