THE FALLS OF THE HOUSATONICK.
Wild cataract of woods! how bright
Thy sheet of liquid silver gleams,
Through the green cedars, on my sight,
Like a tall angel's spear in dreams.
And see the snowy wreath of spray,
Meet for a spotless virgin's shroud,
Curl up the clear blue vault away
To form the future tempest-cloud.
Through mountain shores, with red and gold
Leaves, at this autumn hour, array'd,
Winds the swift river, dark and bold,
O'er rocks in many a white cascade.
Till sweeping past, 'mid froth and surge,
The alder islets strown around,
To where the willows kiss thy verge,
Thou dashest off at one wild bound!
Here, as we gaze—I and my friend,
Two youths with roses on our cheeks,
'T is sweet, but awful, thus to bend
Over the wonder, as it speaks
Like a young earthquake, and to feel
A nameless grandeur swell the soul
With joy that makes the senses reel,
Half-wishing in the flood to roll!
Yes, thou art fair, and fain would I,
Were mine no love, no kindred true,
Alone here live, alone here die,
Were I but worthy too for you,
For oh! were mortals half so fair
And beautiful as their abodes,
Woman a cherub's face would wear,
And man—the majesty of gods.
Each morning sun a rainbow builds
Of pink, across thy diamond foam,
That every tossing billow gilds
With pearls, to deck its ocean home.
Too soon it fades, unseen by all,
Save the rude woodman of the hill,
Or, when for water to the fall,
Trips the glad damsel of the mill.
Methinks, at winter's dazzling night,
Thine were a lovelier scene than now,
For then the very air is white
With the pure stars and purer snow.
And trees, like crystal chandeliers,
In nature's blue cathedral arch,
Light by the moon their gems of tears,
Where, like a queen bride, thou dost march.
And, oft, with a peculiar awe,
Thou com'st the moss-green rocks to lash:
When the soft vernal breezes thaw
The long chain'd river, at one crash
Of thunder, it breaks up and roars,
Till echoing caverns wake from sleep,
As at a mammoth's voice,—and pours
An ice-piled deluge down thy steep.
Fall of the forest! on a wild
Romantic pilgrimage I come
To see thy face, for, from a child,
My footsteps ever loved to roam
Places untrod—yet, why hast thou,
In sylvan beauty, roll'd so long,
And not a poet's tongue, ere now,
Has told his lyre thy praise in song.
