He saw the lake, and a meteor bright
Quick over its surface played—
"Welcome!" he said, "my dear one's light!"
And the dim shore echoed for many a night
The name of the death-cold maid.
Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark,
Which carried him off from shore;
Far, far he followed the meteor spark.
The wind was high, and the clouds were dark,
And the boat returned no more.
But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp.
This lover and maid so time
Are seen at the hour of midnight damp.
To cross the lake by a fire-fly lamp.
And paddle their white canoe.
How wonderful was the truth of the poet's vision! A century is as a day, leaving the picture unchanged. True in romance and reality, Moore's poem on the "Lake of the Dismal Swamp" is as faithful in its natural history as in its melody.
It may be interesting here to recall the incidents of the poet's visit to the lake in 1803. To one man in Norfolk is due special thanks for the constant attention which of late years has been given to this memorable visit. Mr. M. Glennan, editor of the Norfolk Virginian, has often agitated the reclaiming of the Dismal Swamp, making use of
