How sweet it was by good camp-fire,

When summer's bloom was ripe, to lie

With upturned faces to the sky,

And talk the night away or drowse,

Be sung to sleep, and dreaming wake


To view the moonlight on the lake

From couch soft spread with green spruce boughs!

For we were on the topmost spire;

The mountains near indeed were high,

But that whereon we lay was higher

Than all, save where the Northern Star

Looks down on Washington's gray dome,

Or, turning to the westward far,

The giant frame of Lafayette

With Cardigan against him set