 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
THE AMERICAN RIVER.
A REMEMBRANCE.
It rusheth on in fearful might,
That river of the west,
Through forest dense, where seldom light
Of sunbeam gilds its breast;
Anon it dashes wildly past
The wide-spread prairie, lone and vast,
Without a shadow on its tide,
Save the long grass that skirts its side;
Again its angry currents sweep
Beneath the tall and rocky steep
Which frowns above the darkened stream,
Till doubly deep its waters seem.
No rugged cliff may check its way,
No gentle mead invite its stay;
Still with resistless, maddening force,
Following its wild and devious course,
The river rusheth on.
That river of the west,
Through forest dense, where seldom light
Of sunbeam gilds its breast;
Anon it dashes wildly past
The wide-spread prairie, lone and vast,
Without a shadow on its tide,
Save the long grass that skirts its side;
Again its angry currents sweep
Beneath the tall and rocky steep
Which frowns above the darkened stream,
Till doubly deep its waters seem.
No rugged cliff may check its way,
No gentle mead invite its stay;
Still with resistless, maddening force,
Following its wild and devious course,
The river rusheth on.
It rusheth on; the rocks are stirred,
And echoing far and wide
Through the dim forest aisles is heard
The thunder of its tide;
No other sound strikes on the ear
Save when, beside its waters clear,
Crashing o'er branches dry and sere,
Comes bounding forth the antlered deer;
Or when, perchance, the woods give back
The arrow whizzing on its track,
Or deadlier rifle's vengeful crack.
No hum of city life is near,
And still uncurbed in its career,
The river rusheth on.
And echoing far and wide
Through the dim forest aisles is heard
The thunder of its tide;
284
Save when, beside its waters clear,
Crashing o'er branches dry and sere,
Comes bounding forth the antlered deer;
Or when, perchance, the woods give back
The arrow whizzing on its track,
Or deadlier rifle's vengeful crack.
No hum of city life is near,
And still uncurbed in its career,
The river rusheth on.
It rusheth on; no fire-bark leaves
Its dark and smoking trail
O'er the pure wave, which only heaves
The bateau light and frail;
Long, long ago the rude canoe
Across those sparkling waters flew;
Long, long ago the Indian Brave
In that clear stream his brow might lave;
But seldom has the white man stood
Within that trackless solitude.
Yet onward, onward, dashing still,
With all the force of untamed will,
The river rusheth on.
Its dark and smoking trail
O'er the pure wave, which only heaves
The bateau light and frail;
Long, long ago the rude canoe
Across those sparkling waters flew;
Long, long ago the Indian Brave
In that clear stream his brow might lave;
But seldom has the white man stood
Within that trackless solitude.
Yet onward, onward, dashing still,
With all the force of untamed will,
The river rusheth on.
It rusheth on; no changes mark
How many years have sped
Since to its banks, through forests dark,
Some chance the hunter led;
Though many a season has passed o'er
The giant trees that gird its shore,
Though the soft limestone mass, impressed
By naked footstep on its breast,
Now hardened into rock appears
By work of indurating years,
Yet 'tis by grander strength alone
That Nature's age is ever known.
While towers decay and nations fall,
And Thebes shows but a ruined wall,
Time in the wilderness displays
Th' ennobling power of length of days.
The crumbling buttress tells the tale
Of man's vain pomp and projects frail;
But in the forest's trackless bound,
Type of Eternity, is found
The river rushing on.
How many years have sped
Since to its banks, through forests dark,
Some chance the hunter led;
Though many a season has passed o'er
The giant trees that gird its shore,
285
By naked footstep on its breast,
Now hardened into rock appears
By work of indurating years,
Yet 'tis by grander strength alone
That Nature's age is ever known.
While towers decay and nations fall,
And Thebes shows but a ruined wall,
Time in the wilderness displays
Th' ennobling power of length of days.
The crumbling buttress tells the tale
Of man's vain pomp and projects frail;
But in the forest's trackless bound,
Type of Eternity, is found
The river rushing on.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |