Sweet notes of thee.

The bright moon shone,

As, on the shore, I mused alone,

And frosted rocks, and streams, and tree,
With rays that beam'd, like eyes, on me.
A silver robe the mountains hung,

A silver song the waters sung,

And many a pine was heard to quiver,
Along my own blue flowing river.

THE FALLS OF THE HOUSATONIC.

WILD cataract of woods! how bright
Thy sheet of liquid silver gleams,
Through the green cedars, on my sight,
Like a tall angel's spear in dreams.
And see the snowy wreath of spray,

Meet for a spotless virgin's shroud,

Curl up the clear blue vault away,

To form the future tempest-cloud.

Through mountain shores, with red and gold Leaves, at this autumn hour, array'd,

Winds the swift river, dark and bold,

O'er rocks in many a white cascade.
Till sweeping past, 'mid froth and surge,
The alder islets strown around,
To where the willows kiss thy verge,

Thou dashest off at one wild bound!

Y

Here, as we gaze-I and my friend,
Two youths with roses on our cheeks,
'Tis sweet, but awful, thus to bend
Over the wonder, as it speaks
Like a young earthquake, and to feel
A nameless grandeur swell the soul
With joy that makes the senses reel
Half-wishing in the flood to roll!

Yes, thou art fair, and fain would I, Were mine no love, no kindred true, Alone here live, alone here die,

Were I but worthy too for you, For oh! were mortals half so fair And beautiful as their abodes, Woman a cherub's face would wear, And man-the majesty of gods.

Each morning sun a rainbow builds
Of pink, across thy diamond foam,
That every tossing billow gilds

With pearls, to deck its ocean home. Too soon it fades, unseen by all,

Save the rude woodman of the hill, Or when for water to the fall,

Trips the glad damsel of the mill.

Methinks, at winter's dazzling night,

Thine were a lovelier scene than now,

For then the very air is white

With the pure stars and purer snow.

And trees, like crystal chandeliers,
In nature's blue cathedral arch,

Light by the moon their gems of tears,

Where, like a queen bride, thou dost march.

And, oft, with a peculiar awe,

Thou com'st the moss-green rocks to lash.

When the soft vernal breezes thaw

The long chain'd river, at one crash
Of thunder, it breaks up and roars,
Till echoing caverns wake from sleep,
As at a mammoth's voice,-and pours
An ice-piled deluge down thy steep.

Fall of the forest! on a wild
Romantic pilgrimage I come,

To see thy face, for, from a child,
My footsteps ever loved to roam
Places untrod-yet, why hast thou,
In sylvan beauty, roll'd so long,
And not a poet's tongue, ere now,
Has told his lyre thy praise in song.

F. S. ECKHARD.

THE RUINED CITY.

THE days of old, though time has reft
The dazzling splendor which they cast;
Yet many a remnant still is left

To shadow forth the past.

The warlike deed, the classic page,

The lyric torrent, strong and free,

Are lingering o'er the gloom of age,
Like moonlight on the sea.

A thousand years have roll'd along,

And blasted empires in their pride;

And witness'd scenes of crime and wrong,

Till men by nations died.

A thousand sumer suns have shone

Till earth grew bright beneath their sway,

Since thou, untenanted, and lone,

Wert render'd to decay.

The moss tuft, and the ivy wreath,

For ages clad thy fallen mould,

And gladden'd in the spring's soft breath;

But they grew wan and old.

Now, desolation hath denied

That even these shall veil thy gloom :

And nature's mantling beauty died

In token of thy doom.

Alas, for the far years, when clad
With the bright vesture of thy prime,

The proud towers made each wanderer glad,

Who hail'd thy sunny clime.

Alas, for the fond hope, and dream,

And all that won thy children's trust,

God cursed and none may now redeem,

Pale city of the dust!

How the dim visions throng the soul,
When twilight broods upon thy waste ;

The clouds of wo from o'er thee roll,
Thy glory seems replaced.

The stir of life is brightening round,
Thy structures swell upon the eye,

And mirth and revelry resound
In triumph to the sky.