The birch-bark canoe of the savage seems to me one of the most beautiful and perfect things of the kind constructed by human art.

There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.

The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows.

The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.

Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear

All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.