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55
TOCCOA.
Can I forget that happiest day,
That happiest day of all the year,
When on the sloping rock I lay,
Toccoa dripping near?
The lifted wonder of thy eyes
The marvel of thy soul expressed.
Aloft I saw serenest skies,
Below, thy heaving breast.
That happiest day of all the year,
When on the sloping rock I lay,
Toccoa dripping near?
The lifted wonder of thy eyes
The marvel of thy soul expressed.
Aloft I saw serenest skies,
Below, thy heaving breast.
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On wings of mist, in robes of spray
Long trailed, and flowing wide and white,
Adown the mountain steep and gray
We saw Toccoa glide.
Her garments sweeping through the vale,
Began the whispering leaves to wake,
And wafted like a tiny sail
A leaf across the lake.
Long trailed, and flowing wide and white,
Adown the mountain steep and gray
We saw Toccoa glide.
Her garments sweeping through the vale,
Began the whispering leaves to wake,
And wafted like a tiny sail
A leaf across the lake.
The murmur of the falling shower
Which did the solitude increase,
We heard; the cool and happy hour
Filled our young hearts with peace.
Thou satest with a maiden grace,
Thou sawest the rugged rocks and hoary,
As with a half-uplifted face
Thou listenedst to my story.
Which did the solitude increase,
We heard; the cool and happy hour
Filled our young hearts with peace.
Thou satest with a maiden grace,
Thou sawest the rugged rocks and hoary,
As with a half-uplifted face
Thou listenedst to my story.
How many of the banished race,
Those old red warriors of the bow,
Have slumbered in this shadowy place,
Have watched Toccoa flow.
Perchance, where now we sit, they laid
Their arms, and raised a boastful chaunt,
While through the gorgeous Autumn shade
The sunshine shot aslant.
Those old red warriors of the bow,
Have slumbered in this shadowy place,
Have watched Toccoa flow.
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Their arms, and raised a boastful chaunt,
While through the gorgeous Autumn shade
The sunshine shot aslant.
One night, a hideous howling night,
The black boughs swaying overhead,—
Three painted Braves across the height
A false Pe-ro-kah led.
Bright were her glances, bright her smiles,
Wonderous her waving length of hair,
(Ye who descend through slippery wiles,
A maiden's eyes beware!)
The black boughs swaying overhead,—
Three painted Braves across the height
A false Pe-ro-kah led.
Bright were her glances, bright her smiles,
Wonderous her waving length of hair,
(Ye who descend through slippery wiles,
A maiden's eyes beware!)
What saw these swarthy Cherokees
In the deep darkness on the brink?
They saw a red fire through the trees,
Through the tossed branches wave and wink;
They saw pale faces white and dreaming,
Clutched their keen knives, and held their breath,
—All this was but a cheating seeming,
For them, not for the phantoms death.
In the deep darkness on the brink?
They saw a red fire through the trees,
Through the tossed branches wave and wink;
They saw pale faces white and dreaming,
Clutched their keen knives, and held their breath,
—All this was but a cheating seeming,
For them, not for the phantoms death.
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Spoke then the temptress—(maid, or devil,)
‘Let the pale sleepers sleep no more!’
Whoop!—three good bounds on solid rock,
Then empty blackness for a floor.
Yelled the fierce Braves with rage and fright,
With fright their bristling war plumes rose:
On these down fluttering, did the night
Her jaws sepulchral close.
‘Let the pale sleepers sleep no more!’
Whoop!—three good bounds on solid rock,
Then empty blackness for a floor.
Yelled the fierce Braves with rage and fright,
With fright their bristling war plumes rose:
On these down fluttering, did the night
Her jaws sepulchral close.
These rocks tall-lifted, rent apart,
This Indian legend old
To thee, enchantress as thou art,
A warning truth unfold.
Who love, 'mid midnight dangers stand,
To them false fires wink:
Accurséd be the evil hand
That beckons to the brink.
This Indian legend old
To thee, enchantress as thou art,
A warning truth unfold.
Who love, 'mid midnight dangers stand,
To them false fires wink:
Accurséd be the evil hand
That beckons to the brink.
1845.
Toccoa and Tallulah, two falls in Upper Georgia. The first a mere rivulet falling in seldom more than a shower of spray from the edge of a lofty cliff into a lovely and secluded valley; the last, an impetuous torrent, raging down the gigantic granite steps at the head of a barranca upwards of a thousand feet deep, and whose gloomy grandeur is most impressive when a black cloud closes the narrow aperture overhead, and the towering precipices on either hand reverberate the deafening crash of the thunder.
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