O'er the Bridge of Souls[26] together
Walked the Sea-Gull and the Panther.
To the far-off Sunny Islands--
To the Summer-Land of Spirits,
Sea-Gull journeyed with her husband--
Where no more the happy hunter
Feels the fangs of frost or famine,
Or the keen blasts of Kewaydin,
Where no pain or sorrow enters,
And no crafty, wicked woman.
There she rules his lodge forever,
And the twain are very happy,
On the far-off Sunny Islands,
In the Summer-Land of Spirits.
On the rocks of Gitchee Gumee--
On the Pictured Rocks--the legend
Long ago was traced and written,
Pictured by the Water-Spirits;
But the storms of many winters
Have bedimmed the pictured story,
So that none can read the legend
But the Jossakeeds,[27] the prophets.

POETRY.

I had rather write one word upon the rock
Of ages than ten thousand in the sand.
The rock of ages! lo I cannot reach
Its lofty shoulders with my puny hand:
I can but touch the sands about its feet.
Yea, I have painted pictures for the blind,
And sung my sweetest songs to ears of stone.
What matter if the dust of ages drift
Five fathoms deep above my grave unknown,
For I have sung and loved the songs I sung.
Who sings for fame the Muses may disown;
Who sings for gold will sing an idle song;
But he who sings because sweet music springs
Unbidden from his heart and warbles long,
May haply touch another heart unknown.
There is sweeter poetry in the hearts of men
Than ever poet wrote or minstrel sung;
For words are clumsy wings for burning thought.
The full heart falters on the stammering tongue,
And silence is more eloquent than song
When tender souls are wrung by grief or shameful wrong.

The grandest poem is God's Universe:
In measured rhythm the planets whirl their course:
Rhythm swells and throbs in every sun and star,
In mighty ocean's organ-peals and roar,
In billows bounding on the harbor-bar,
In the blue surf that rolls upon the shore,
In the low zephyr's sigh, the tempest's sob,
In the rain's patter and the thunder's roar;
Aye, in the awful earthquake's shuddering throb,
When old Earth cracks her bones and trembles to her core.

I hear a piper piping on a reed
To listening flocks of sheep and bearded goats;
I hear the larks shrill-warbling o'er the mead
Their silver sonnets from their golden throats;
And in my boyhood's clover-fields I hear
The twittering swallows and the hum of bees.
Ah, sweeter to my heart and to my ear
Than any idyl poet ever sung,
The low,