Fair lake, thy lovely and thy haunted shore

Hath only echoes for the poet’s lute;

None may tread there save with unsandalled foot,

Submissive to the great who went before,

Filled with the mighty memories of yore.

And yet how mournful are the records there —

Captivity, and exile, and despair,

Did they endure who now endure no more.

The patriot, the woman, and the bard,

Whose names thy winds and waters bear along;

What did the world bestow for their reward

But suffering, sorrow, bitterness, and wrong? —

Genius! — a hard and weary lot is thine —

The heart thy fuel — and the grave thy shrine.