The mountain's sidesAre flecked with gleams of light and spots of shade;Here, golden sunshine spreads in mellow rays, and there,Stretching across its hoary breast, deep shadows lurk.A stream, with many a turn, now lost to sight,And then, again revealed, winds through the vale,Shimmering in the early morning sun.A few white clouds float in the blue expanse,Their forms revealed in the clear lake beneath,Which bears upon its breast a bark canoe,Cautiously guided by a sinewy arm.High in the heavens, three eagles proudly poise,Keeping their mountain eyrie still in view,Although their flight has borne them far away.Upon the cliff which beetles o'er the pool,Two Indians, peering from the brink, appear,Clad in the gaudy dress their nature craves-Robes of bright blue and scarlet, but which blendIn happy union with the landscape round.Near by a wigwam stands-a fire withinSends out a ruddy glow-and from its roof,Cone-shaped, a spiral wreath of smoke ascends.Not far away, though deeper in the woods,Another hut, with red-men grouped about,Attracts the eye, and wakens saddened thoughtsOf that brave race who once were masters here,But now, like autumn leaves, are dying out.