Thy mimic cliffs have long withstood
The furrowing plough and vassal spade.
The wild thrush wings its reedy note
Through thy lone forest, liquid clear,
Whose answering echoes, far remote,
Fling back a dim and plaintive cheer.
No tone enslaved in silvery string
Or sense-enrapturing voice is heard
To match thy melodies, or sing
A challenge to thy minstrel bird.
Here sovereign Nature teaches rest;
The quiet mosses on the stone
Weave o'er its silent, flinty breast
An emerald softness all their own.
The pebbly sands along thy shore
Lie mutely, lulled by babbling waves;
The fringed fern and gentian flower
On thy low margin make their graves:
And through thy valley's dusky shade
In ceaseless murmurings, ages long,
Shall mingle with the flowers that fade
Thy endless infancy of song.
O waters of Pocantico!
Wild rivulet of wood and glen!
May thy glad laughters, sweet and low,
Long, long outlive the sighs of men!
Racket (Raquette), the River, N. Y.
OWN the winding woodland river,
Oh, how swift we glide!
Every tree and bush and blossom
Mirrored in the tide;
Bright and blue the heaven above us
As whose azure eye!
Soft and sweet the wandering breezes
As-whose gentle sigh!
White the cloudlet wreathing o'er us
As her spotless brow!
Oh, what king was e'er so joyous
As we roamers now!
Ho, ho, we merrily go
Down the winding, sparkling flow!
Down so cheerily,
Never wearily,
Ho, ho, we merrily go
Down to the lovely lake below!
Mark the crane wide winnowing from us!
Off the otter swims!
Round her fortress sails the fish-hawk;
Down the wood-duck skims!
Glitters rich the golden lily,
Glows the Indian Plume,
On yon point a deer is drinking,
Back he shrinks in gloom;
Now the little sparkling rapid!
Now the fairy cove!
Here, the sunlight-mantled meadow !
There, the sprinkled grove!
Ho, ho, we merrily go
Down the winding, glittering flow!
Down so cheerily!
Never wearily!
Ho, ho, we merrily go
Down to the lovely lake below!
Red Mill, the River, N. Y.
one bold spring, the little streamlet sinks Prostrate below, and slumbers still and pure, Holding its silver mirror to the sun And open sky. It rushes from its height, Like some bold warrior to the gladdening fray; Then rests like that same warrior in repose, Smiling at victory won. When summer noon Makes earth and air all drowsy with its heat, Delicious is the rumble of the plunge Sounding its grateful coolness to the ear, And blending sweetly with the sighing tones
Born where the pine uplifts its dark blue spire,
And with the humming, like a giant bee,
The tall slim mill yields ever through the day.
Noon's columned beams bring likewise out the hues
That shift and quiver upon the headlong sheet;
The emerald and the sapphire of its curve,
The diamond tremble of its glancing drops,
And all the tints that glitter in the threads
Divided sunshine - of the opal bow
Gleaming and dancing in the snowy foam
Born at its tumbling foot. The afternoon
Steeps it in pleasant shadow, with a ring
Of radiance on the cedar's slender tip
And mill's sharp roof, and moonlight makes the pitch
One slope of silver. A delicious spot!
And lovers wander here in summer hours,
To gaze upon the scene, and, in the soft
And glowing day-dreams given by Hope and Love,
Muse on the things that meet their mingled sight.
In the swift plunging stream the youth beholds
The course of man, his energy of will,
His rush of action, turbulence of soul;
While sees the maiden in the pool below
The life of woman, gentle, sweet, and bright,
Receiving to her bosom reckless man,
Yet glassing in her crystal purity
The stars and sunshine of the heaven above her.
N old Long Island's sea-girt shore,
Many an hour I've whiled away,
In listening to the breakers' roar
That wash the beach at Rockaway.
Transfixed I've stood while Nature's lyre
In one harmonious concert broke,
And catching its Promethean fire,
My inmost soul to rapture woke.
To hear the startling night-winds sigh,
As dreamy twilight lulls to sleep;
While the pale moon reflects from high
Her image in the mighty deep;
Majestic scene where Nature dwells,
Profound in everlasting love,
While her unmeasured music swells,
The vaulted firmament above.
Roslyn, N. Y.
BRYANT'S BIRTHDAY, 1878.
very losses bare,
OVEMBER lays our
Stripping a shadowy solace with the leaf;
The stark, reft branches sharply cut the air,
Giving a naked poignancy to grief.
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