Thy mighty urn,

Now Mystic Gorge, with chalices of rock
Cut by the whirling boulder! list that strain,
Where Sylvan Rapids tune their little lute!
A mingled minstrelsy of purl and dash,
Warble and gurgle, like the braided song
Of robin, wren, and bobolink. A broad
White burst of dazzling day!
O Glen Cathedral! where the soaring rocks
Prop the high heavens as Atlas props his mount.
It seems the chamber of the Glen's great King,
The Genius Loci. Mosses hang the walls
With curtained emerald, and the printless floor
Smooth as yon pool! Above, the broadened roof
Is wrought of God's own brow of beaming blue,
Save where the slanting pine one wrinkle plants.
What maelstrom of whirled boulders fashioned thee,
Cathedral of the rock! what thundering scoop,
What sweeping swing? Thy same slight arm, O rill,
That penetrated softly yon dark cleft,
And parted with its light and gradual touch
This little pathway, like the touch of Time
That wears the blossom and the mountain down.
Gaze round! what contrast rich of brights and darks,
Close shade and cheery sun, - a fretwork dance
Of breezy leaves, - mosaic of quick tints,
A dazzling interchange of black and gold.
The sparks of sunshine sprinkled on the leaves
Glitter like stars; upon the sunny grass
Each tree has dropped its shadow as the Turk
At noontide drops his carpet. Edges of light
Lace the thick evergreens and yon slight spray

Of the black-walnut, fringed with oval leaves,
Seems as if melting into fluid gold.
Pool of the Nymphs at moonlight, do you see
The naiads plunge within thy silver balm
And float like glittering pearls, until the scene
Is full of merriest mirth and sweetest song?
Art thou a mirror to the rich red dawn,
And doth the evening star in thy clear depth
Drop its grand diamond? Thou too, Glen of the Pools!
Thy rocky goblets look as if their draughts
Had oft shone for the Genii of the spot,
Feasting together in the summer heats,
What time the breeze lay lifeless on the leaf
Of even the aspen, and the very thread
Of gossamer drooped downward, and save close
To the unending plunge of falling foam,
Not one soft, downy, airy atom stirred.
Thou ownest, too, the epitome of charms
Of all the Glen in this thy Matchless Scene ;
The grace, the grandeur, the wild loveliness,
And stern magnificence of waterfall;

Dark chasm, smooth pool, tall tree, and foamy flash
Of rapids; foliage fresh and green as heart
Of childhood; curls of feathery ferns which gave
To the Greek temple the acanthus leaf,
And mosses plump as formed Titania's floor
At elfin dances. So did Zeuxis blend
In his bright Helen all the varied charms
Of Athens, till the canvas flashed with tints
That live in dawns and sunsets, gems and flowers,
And smile at Time. But hark, that organ-voice,

the Rainbow Fall

And see yon cataract bursting into view,
Careering down its threefold terraces!
Toward it, along the ledges of our path
Grazing the cliff, a lace-work of quick drops -
A shivered rill - falls down in diamond gauze
Between us and the scene; the lush green moss
Grows greener here; the fern shows richer curve,
And every grass blade wears more vivid hue.
But now we pause beside the towering rock
Where the rich bastion, crystalline half-moon
Of this, the Glen's crown-gem,
Curves from the beetling crag. Behind the sheet!
What delicate balm of coolness, flitting airs,
As from invisible fairy fans! We bathe
In the soft bliss, and, glancing through the veil,
That wondrous opal of the sun and rain,
The first-born of the deluge, bends its bow,
Melting and brightening, dancing, quivering there,
Young as when first it filled the wondering eye
Of Noah, kindled the niched Ark, and crowned
Grand Ararat with diadem of the sun.

And yet, O Stream, though gentle in thy smile
Of Summer, woe, when Winter bursts his chain
And lets thee loose, with all thy frantic wrath
Upon thee! when the weight of melted snows
Is wreaked on thy full breast, and scourging rains
Have roused thy heart to direst frenzy; lo!
With roar of splintering thunders, thou dost break
Down from thy sources; and with tawny mane,
Wild tossing, and with foamy fangs that tear,

Fierce dost thou hurl thy fearful length along,
Drowning the fairy waterfalls, the pools

Brimming, till even their dimpling whirls are lost
In gushes,.stripping from the raw rough banks
The mantling mosses; rolling onward rocks
Like pebbles, and huge trunks of jagged trees
Like straws; and tugging at the tough old roots
Of pines until they shake with awful dread.
On rush thy waters, while the tortured Glen
Roars to thy roar and trembles at thy speed,
Until, with headlong plunge, at last thy surge
Slumbers in quiet in the quiet Lake.

Alfred Billings Street.

Weehawken, N. J.

WEEHAWKEN.

W

EEHAWKEN !

in thy mountain scenery yet,

All we adore of Nature in her wild

And frolic hour of infancy is met;

And never has a summer's morning smiled

Upon a lovelier scene than the full eye
Of the enthusiast revels on, when high

Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs

O'er crags that proudly tower above the deep, And knows that sense of danger which sublimes The breathless moment, when his daring step

Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear
The low dash of the wave with startled ear,

Like the death-music of his coming doom,

And clings to the green turf with desperate force, As the heart clings to life; and when resume The currents in his veins their wonted course, There lingers a deep feeling, like the moan Of wearied ocean when the storm is gone.

In such an hour he turns, and on his view

Ocean and earth and heaven burst before him.
Clouds slumbering at his feet, and the clear blue
Of Summer's sky, in beauty bending o'er him,
The city bright below; and far away,
Sparkling in golden light, his own romantic bay.

Tall spire, and glittering roof, and battlement,
And banners floating in the sunny air;
And white sails o'er the calm blue waters bent,
Green isle and circling shore, are blended there,
In wild reality. When life is old,
And many a scene forgot, the heart will hold

Its memory of this; nor lives there one

Whose infant breath was drawn, or boyhood's days
Of happiness were passed beneath that sun,
That in his manhood's prime can calmly gaze

Upon that bay or on that mountain stand,
Nor feel the prouder of his native land.

Fitz-Greene Halleck.