JOSEPH H. NICHOLS
BENNETT'S BRIDGE.
Thou beautiful, romantic Dell!
Thy banks of hemlock highlands swell,
Like huge sea billows, o'er the isles
Round which the branching river smiles.
Look up! how sombre and how vast
The shadows those dark mountains cast,
Making noon twilight; or, look down
The giddy depths, so steep and brown,
Where claret waters foam and play
A tinkling tune, then dance away.
Oft, with my oak leaf basket green,
On summer holidays serene,
Along your hill-sides have I stray'd,
And, on the ground, all scarlet made,
Pick'd in full stems, as low I kneel'd,
Strawberries, rubies of the field,
Coming late home; or, in the flood,
Cool'd the warm current of my blood;
While swam the house-dog after me,
With long red tongue lapt out in glee.
'T is glorious, here, at breaking day,
To watch the orient clouds of gray
Blush crimson, as the yellow sun
Walks up to take his purple throne,
And melts to snowy mists the dew
That kiss'd, all night, each blossom's hue,
Till, like a tumbling ocean spread,
They hide low vale and tall cliff's head,
And many a tree's fantastic form
Looks like some toss'd ship in a storm.
How still the scene! yet, here war's hum
Once echoed wildly from the drum,
When waved the lily flower's gay bloom
O'er glittering troops with sword and plume,
Who, on the clover meadows round,
Their white tents pitch'd, while music's sound,
From horn and cymbal, play'd some strain
That oft had charm'd the banks of Seine,
And village girls came down to dance,
At evening with the youths of France.
Fair was the hour, secluded Dell!
When last I taught my listening shell
Sweet notes of thee. The bright moon shone,
As, on the shore, I mused alone,
And frosted rocks, and streams, and tree,
With rays that beam'd, like eyes, on me.
A silver robe the mountains hung,
A silver song the waters sung,
And many a pine was heard to quiver,
Along my own blue flowing river.
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.
