By its marge the wolf had found a lair,
He roamed through each lonely spot;
That deep designer, the beaver, there
Built his palace; the shaggy bear
In the tall tree had his cot.
And voices sweet were heard on the bank
Of the river's gentle flow;
The whip-poor-will sang when the sun had sank,
And the hum-drum bee to his home had shrank,
When the wind of eve did blow.
The tree-frog joined with his sonorous call,
The grasshopper chirped along,
The dormice came out of their underground hole,
The squirrels peeped over their pine-tree wall,
To list to the revel song.
Nothing disturbed the murmur deep
Of the river broad and fair;
No one awoke it from peaceful sleep,
Save when floating mice o'er its breast would creep,
Or the rusty-coated bear.
One morn the sound of an axe was heard
In the forest, dark and lone;
Then started with fear the beasts disturbed,
Their reign was broke at the woodman's word,
And they scowled with anger on.
On the river's brink the emigrant's child
Passed all his lonely hours,
He laughed when he ruffled the bosom mild
Of the flowing streamlet so bright and wild,
As it bore his boon of flowers.
Soon the throng of the forest heard the horn
Of the boat, the commerce boat;
Then they started up from the brake and thorn,
And hastening away by the light of the morn,
They fled from cavern and moat.
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