Beside his radiance, beauty still
That made my inmost bosom thrill;
To loftier life my being wrought,
And purified my every thought;
Crept, like soft music, through my mind,
And every feeling soft refined,
Lifting me, that pure, lovely even,
One precious moment up to heaven.
Then, contrast wild, I saw the cloud,
The next day, rear its sable crest;
And heard, with awe, the thunder loud
Come, crashing, o'er thy blackening breast.
Down swooped the Eagle of the Blast;
One mass of foam flew, tossing high;
While the red lightnings fierce and fast
Shot from the wild and scowling sky;
And burst in mad and mighty train
One tumbling cataract, the rain.
I saw, within the driving mist,
Dim, writhing, stooping shapes;
That the last eve so softly kissed,
And birds so filled with melodies.
Still rushed the wind with keener shriek;
The tossing waters higher rolled;
Still fiercer flashed the lightning's streak,
Still gloomier frowned the tempest's fold.
Ah! such, ah! such is life, I sighed,
That lovely yester eve and this.
Now it reflects the radiant pride
Of youth and hope and promised bliss;
Earth's future track an Eden seems
Far lovelier than our loveliest dreams.
Again, the tempest rushes o'er,
The sky's blue smile is seen no more;
The placid deep to foam is tossed,
All trace of peace and beauty lost.
Despair is hovering, dark and wild.
Ah, what can save Earth's stricken child!
Sweet, sylvan lake! beside thee now
Green hamlets point their spires to heaven;
Rich meadows wave, broad grain-fields bow,
The axe resounds, the plough is driven,
Down verdant slopes roam herds to drink;
Flocks strew, like spots of snow, thy brink;
The frequent farm-house greets the sight;
Mid falling harvests scythes are bright;
The watch-dog's bark sounds faint from far;
Shakes on the ear the saw-mill's jar;
The steamer, like a gliding bird,
Stems the rich emerald of thy wave;
And the gay song and laugh are heard,
But all is o'er the Indian's grave!
Pause, white man! check thy onward stride!
Cease o'er the wave thy prow to guide!
Until is given one sigh sincere
For those who once were monarchs here;
And prayer is made, beseeching God
To spare us his avenging rod
For all the wrongs upon the head
Of the poor, helpless savage shed;
Who, strong when we were weak, did not
Trample us down upon the spot,
But, weak when we were strong, were cast
Like leaves upon the rushing blast.
Sweet, sylvan lake! one single gem
Glitters in thy green diadem.
No sister has this fairy isle
To yield its beauty smile for smile;
With it, to hear the bluebird sing,
"Wake, leaves and flowers! here comes the Spring!"
With it, to weave for Summer's tread
Mosses below, and bowers o'erhead;
With it, to flash on gorgeous skies
The opal pomp of Autumn dyes,
And when stern Winter's tempests blow,
To shrink beneath his robes of snow.
Sweet, sylvan lake! that isle of thine
Is like one hope through grief to shine;
Is like one tie our life to cheer;
Is like one flower when all is sere;
One ray amid the tempest's might;
One star amid the gloom of night.
Champlain, the Lake, N. Y.
OT thoughtless let us enter thy domain;
Well did the tribes of yore,
Who sought the ocean from the distant plain,
Call thee their country's door.
And as the portals of a saintly pile
The wanderer's steps delay,
And, while he musing roams the lofty aisle,
Care's phantoms melt away
In the vast realm where tender memories brood
O'er sacred haunts of time,
That woo his spirit to a nobler mood
And more benignant clime,
So in the fane of thy majestic hills
We meekly stand elate;
The baffled heart a tranquil rapture fills
Beside thy crystal gate:
For here the incense of the cloistered pines,
Stained windows of the sky,
The frescoed clouds and mountains' purple shrines,
Proclaim God's temple nigh.
Through wild ravines thy wayward currents glide,
Round bosky islands play;
Here tufted headlands meet the lucent tide,
There gleams the spacious bay;
Untracked for ages, save when crouching flew,
Through forest-hung defiles,
The dusky savage in his frail canoe,
To seek the thousand isles,
Or rally to the fragrant cedar's shade
The settler's crafty foe,
With toilsome march and midnight ambuscade
To lay his dwelling low.
Along the far horizon's opal wall
The dark blue summits rise,
And o'er them rifts of misty sunshine fall,
Or golden vapor lies.
And over all tradition's gracious spell
A fond allurement weaves ;
Her low refrain the moaning tempest swells,
And thrills the whispering leaves.
To win this virgin land, a kingly quest,
Chivalric deeds were wrought;
Long by thy marge and on thy placid breast
The Gaul and Saxon fought.
What cheers of triumph in thy echoes sleep!
What brave blood dyed thy wave!
A grass-grown rampart crowns each rugged steep,
Each isle a hero's grave.
And gallant squadrons manned for border fray,
That rival standards bore,
Sprung from thy woods and on thy bosom lay, -
Stern warders of the shore.
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