VE o'er our path is stealing fast;
Yon quivering splendors are the last
The sun will fling, to tremble o'er
The waves that kiss the opposing shore;
His latest glories fringe the height
Behind us, with their golden light.
The mountain's mirrored outline fades
Amid the fast-extending shades;
Its shaggy bulk, in sterner príde,
Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide;
For the great stream a bulwark meet
That leaves its rock-encumbered feet.
River and mountain! though to song
Not yet, perchance, your names belong;
Those who have loved your evening hues
Will ask not the recording Muse
What antique tales she can relate,
Your banks and steeps to consecrate.
Yet, should the stranger ask what lore
Of bygone days this winding shore,
Yon cliffs and fir-clad steeps, could tell,
If vocal made by Fancy's spell,
The varying legend might rehearse
Fit themes for high, romantic verse.
O'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sod
Oft hath the stalworth warrior trod;
Or peered, with hunter's gaze, to mark
The progress of the glancing bark.
Spoils, strangely won on distant waves,
Have lurked in yon obstructed caves.
When the great strife for Freedom rose,
Here scouted oft her friends and foes
Alternate, through the changeful war,
And beacon-fires flashed bright and far;
And here, when Freedom's strife was won,
Fell, in sad feud, her favored son,
Her son, the second of the band,
The Romans of the rescued land.
Where round yon capes the banks ascend,
Long shall the pilgrim's footsteps bend;
There mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh,
There tears shall dim the patriot's eye.
There last he stood. Before his sight
Flowed the fair river, free and bright;
The rising mart, and isles, and bay,
Before him in their glory lay, -
Scenes of his love and of his fame,
The instant ere the death-shot came.
ILD umbrage far around me clings
To breezy knoll and hushed ravine,
And o'er each rocky headland flings
Its mantle of refreshing green.
The echoes that so boldly rung
When cannon flashed from steep to steep,
And Freedom's airy challenge flung,
In each romantic valley sleep.
His counsels here our chieftain breathed,
Here roved his mild, undaunted eye,
When yon lone fort, with thickets wreathed,
Held captive Britain's gallant spy.
Fit home to rear a nation's youth
By self-control to nerve the will,
Through knowledge gain expansive truth,
And with high aims life's circle fill.
How grateful is the sudden change
From arid pavements to the grass,
From narrow streets that thousands range,
To meadows where June's zephyrs pass!
Beneath the cliffs the river steals
In darksome eddies to the shore,
But midway every sail reveals
Reflected on its crystal floor.
In tranquil mood the cattle walk
Along the verdant marge to feed,
While poised upon the mullein stalk
The chirping redbird picks the seed.
Low murmurs in the foliage bred,
The clear horizon's azure line,
Fresh turf elastic to the tread,
And leafy canopies are thine.
White fleecy clouds move slowly by,
How cool their shadows fall to-day!
A moment on the hills they lie,
And then like spirits glide away.
Amid the herbage, yesternight,
His web the cunning spider threw, And now, as sparkling diamonds bright, It glistens with the pendent dew.
Gay butterflies dart on and sink
O'er the sweet blossoms of the pea,
And from the clover's globe of pink
Contented hums the downy bee.
In all this varied beauty glows
Deep meaning for the thoughtful heart,
As it were fain to teach repose,
And lofty confidence impart.
How vivid to my fancy now,
Uprise the forms that life redeem !
The ardent eye, the open brow,
And tender smile beside me seem.
For Nature's presence gathers back
The deeds that grace, the loves that cheer, And as her holy steps we track,
Hope's rainbow breaks through sorrow's tear.
Henry Theodore Tuckerman.
THE GRAVEYARD AT WEST POINT.
N this sweet Sabbath morning, let us wander
0 From the loud music and the gay parade,
Where sleeps the graveyard, in its silence, yonder, Deep in the mountain shade.
There, side by side, the dark green cedars cluster,
Like sentries watching by that camp of Death ;
There, like an army's tents, with snow-white lustre,
The gravestones gleam beneath.
But, as we go, no posted guard or picket
Stays our approach across the level grass,
Nor hostile challenge at the simple wicket
Through which our footsteps pass.
Sweet spot, by Nature's primal consecration,
Sacred to peace and thought and calm repose,
Well in thy breast that elder generation
Their place of burial chose.
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