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(Excerpt)
OUR western land can boast no lovelier spot. | |
| The hills which in their ancient grandeur stand | |
| Piled to the frowning clouds, the bulwarks seem | |
| Of this wild scene, resolved that none but Heaven | |
| Shall look upon its beauty. Bound their breast | 5 |
| A curtained fringe depends, of golden mist, | |
| Touched by the slanting sunbeams; while below | |
| The silent river, with majestic sweep, | |
| Pursues his shadowed way,—his glassy face | |
| Unbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swan | 10 |
| To float in pride, or dip his ruffled wing. | |
| Talk ye of solitude? It is not here. | |
| Nor silence. Low, deep murmurs are abroad. | |
| Those towering hills hold converse with the sky | |
| That smiles upon their summits; and the wind | 15 |
| Which stirs their wooded sides whispers of life, | |
| And bears the burden sweet from leaf to leaf, | |
| Bidding the stately forest-boughs look bright, | |
| And nod to greet his coming! And the brook, | |
| That with its silvery gleam comes leaping down | 20 |
| From the hillside, has, too, a tale to tell; | |
| The wild bird’s music mingles with its chime; | |
| And gay young flowers, that blossom in its path, | |
| Send forth their perfume as an added gift. | |
| The river utters, too, a solemn voice, | 25 |
| And tells of deeds long past, in ages gone, | |
| When not a sound was heard along his shores, | |
| Save the wild tread of savage feet, or shriek | |
| Of some expiring captive, and no bark | |
| E’er cleft his gloomy waters. Now, his waves | 30 |
| Are vocal often with the hunter’s song; | |
| Now visit, in their glad and onward course, | |
| The abodes of happy men,—gardens and fields, | |
| And cultured plains,—still bearing, as they pass, | |
| Fertility renewed and fresh delights. * * * * * | 35 |
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