Safely the Rift is left behind,
A careful stearsman stearing;
Swiftly we speed, only to find
A dizzy eddy nearing,
Where rolling in the river-lake,
And whirling round and round
A dozen rafts the circle make,
And warning cries resound:
Pull, lads, pull!--Sylvania's shore!
The Eddy's near!
Pull, lads, pull!--till the sweeping oar
Bends like a bow and you hear the roar
Of the river in the rear.