 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
169
NIAGARA.
I long'd for Andes all around, and Alps,Hoar kings and priests of Nature, robed in snow,
Throned as for judgment in a solemn row,
With icy mitres on their granite scalps,
Dumb giants, frowning at the strife below—
I long'd for The Sublime!—Thou art too Fair,
Too fair, Niagara, to be sublime;
In calm slow strength thy mighty floods o'erflow,
And stand a cliff of cataracts in the air—
Yet,—all too beauteous Water-bride of Time,—
Veil'd in soft mists, and cinctur'd by the bow,
Thy pastoral charms may fascinate the sight,
But have not force to set my soul aglow,
Raptur'd by fear, and wonder, and delight.
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