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O'er yon gray crag the still dawn breaks;
The light clouds flush, and morning smiles
Across the wondrous-tinted lake,
With all its hundred isles.


Those grand old peaks, aƫrial kings,
With mystic, sunlit glories crowned;
The vessels spreading noiseless wings;
On shore what peace profound!


Thus limned by memory's faithful touch
Champlain, thy summer beauties stand
Transcending skill of mortal art,
And mocking Time's unkindly hand.


And, often, on my darkened room
Of sickness, with a mild surprise,
Thy tinted lake, thy cloud-wreathed peaks,
And cottage on the shore, arise.