'THEY made her a grave too cold and damp <br />For a soul so warm and true; <br />And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, <br />Where all night long, by a firefly lamp, <br />She paddles her white canoe. <br /> <br />And her firefly lamp I soon shall see, <br />And her paddle I soon shall hear; <br />Long and moving our life shall be <br />And I'll hide the maid in a cypress tree, <br />When the footstep of death is near.' <br /> <br />Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds, - <br />His path was rugged and sore, <br />Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, <br />Through many a fen where the serpent feeds, <br />And man never trod before. <br /> <br />And when on the earth he sank to sleep, <br />If slumber his eyelids knew, <br />He lay where the deadly vine doth weep <br />Its venemous tear, and nightly steep <br />The flesh with blistering dew! <br /> <br />And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake, <br />And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, <br />Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, <br />'Oh when shall I see the dusky Lake, <br />And the white canoe of my dear?' <br /> <br />He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright <br />Quick over its surface play'd, - <br />'Welcome,' he said, 'my dear one's light!' <br />And the dim shore echo'd for many a night <br />The name of the death-cold maid. <br /> <br />Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark, <br />Which carried him off from the shore; <br />Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark, <br />The wind was high and the clouds were dark, <br />And the boat return'd no more. <br /> <br />But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp, <br />This lover and maid so true <br />Are seen at the hour of midnight damp <br />To cross the Lake by a firefly lamp, <br />And paddle their white canoe!<br /><br />Thomas Moore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-lake-of-the-dismal-swamp/
