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Land of mighty lake and forest!
Where the winter's locks are hoarest;
Where the summer's leaf is greenest
And the winter's bite the keenest;
Where the autumn's leaf is searest;
And her parting smile the dearest;
Where the tempest rushes forth,
From his caverns of the north;
With the lightnings of his wrath,
Sweeping forests from his path:
Where the cataract stupendous,
Lifteth up her voice tremendous;
Where uncultivated nature,
Rears her pines of giant stature;

Sows her jagged hemlocks o'er,

Thick as bristles on the boar;

Plants the stately elm and oak,

Firmly in the iron rock;

Where the crane her course is steering;

And the eagle is careering;

Where the gentle deer are bounding,

And the woodman's axe resounding;

Land ot mighty lake and river,

To our hearts thou'rt dear forever!

Thou art not a land of story;
Thou art not a land of glory;
No tradition, tale, nor song,
To thine ancient woods belong;
No long line of bards and sages,
Looking to us down the ages;
No old heroes sweeping by,
In their warlike panoply;
Yet heroic deeds are done,
Where no battle's lost or won;
In the cottage in the woods,
In the lonely solitudes;
Pledges of affection given,
That will be redeemed in heaven.
Why seek in a foreign land,
For the theme that's close at hand;
Human nature can be seen,
Here within the forest green;
Let us wander where we will,
There's a world of good and ill.
Poetry is every where,
In the common earth and air,
In the pen, and in the stall,
In the hyssop on the wall,'
In the wandering Arab's tent,
In the backwoods settlement;
Have we but the hearing ear,
It is always whispering near,
Have we but the heart to feel it,
All the world will reveal it.

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