One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks- Comes faintly like the breath of sleep. Well may the gazer deem that when, Like this deep quiet that, awhile, A SCENE ON THE BANKS OF THE HUDSON. COOL shades and dews are round my way, And silence of the early day; Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed, Glitters the mighty Hudson spread, Unrippled, save by drops that fall From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall; The music of the Sabbath bells. All, save this little nook of land, Seems a blue void, above, below, Through which the white clouds come and go; And from the green world's farthest steep I gaze into the airy deep. Loveliest of lovely things are they, On earth, that soonest pass away. Is prized beyond the sculptured flower. River! in this still hour thou hast THE HURRICANE. LORD of the winds! I feel thee nigh, I know thy breath in the burning sky! And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, For the coming of the hurricane ! And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails; Silent and slow, and terribly strong, The mighty shadow is borne along, Like the dark eternity to come; While the world below, dismayed and dumb, Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere, Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear. They darken fast; and the golden blaze A beam that touches, with hues of death, And the forests hear and answer the sound. He is come! he is come! do ye not behold How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale; And fold at length, in their dark embrace, Darker-still darker! the whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air : And bark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud! You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, And flood the skies with a lurid glow. What roar is that?-'tis the rain that breaks Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies, The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, Of the crystal heaven, and buries all. WILLIAM TELL. CHAINS may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee, Thundered by torrents which no power can hold, Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught, And to thy brief captivity was brought A vision of thy Switzerland unbound. The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thee 134 THE HUNTER'S SERENADE. THY bower is finished, fairest ! Fit bower for hunter's bride, In all this lovely Western land, A spot so lovely yet. But I shall think it fairer When thou art come to bless, With thy sweet smile and silver voice, For thee the wild-grape glistens, On sunny knoll and tree, The slim papaya ripens Its yellow fruit for thee. For thee the duck, on glassy stream, My rifle for thy feast shall bring The wild-swan from the sky. I know, for thou hast told me, Thy maiden love of flowers; Are pale compared with ours. |