SUSQUEHANNA.
Softly the blended light of evening rests
Upon thee, lovely stream! Thy gentle tide,
Picturing the gorgeous beauty of the sky,
Onward, unbroken by the ruffling wind,
Majestically flows. Oh! by thy side,
Far from the tumults and the throng of men,
And the vain cares that vex poor human life,
’Twere happiness to dwell, alone with thee,
And the wide solemn grandeur of the scene.
From thy green shores, the mountains that inclose
In their vast sweep the beauties of the plain,
Slowly receding, toward the skies ascend,
Enrobed with clustering woods o’er which the smile
Of Autumn in his loveliness hath passed,
Touching their foliage with his brilliant hues,
And flinging o’er the lowliest leaf and shrub
His golden livery. On the distant heights
Soft clouds, earth-based, repose, and stretch afar
Their burnished summits in the clear blue heaven,
Flooded with splendor, that the dazzled eye
Turns drooping from the sight.—Nature is here
Like a throned sovereign, and thy voice doth tell
In music never silent, of her power.
Nor are thy tones unanswered, where she builds
Such monuments of regal sway. These wide,
Untrodden forests eloquently speak,
Whether the breath of Summer stir their depths,
Or the hoarse moaning of November’s blast
Strip from the boughs their covering.
All the air
Is now instinct with life. The merry hum
Of the returning bee, and the blithe song
Of fluttering bird, mocking the solitude,
Swell upward—and the play of dashing streams
From the green mountain side is faintly heard.
The wild swan swims the waters’ azure breast
With graceful sweep, or startled, soars away,
Cleaving with mounting wing the clear bright air.
Oh! in the boasted lands beyond the deep,
Where Beauty hath a birth-right—where each mound
And mouldering ruin tells of ages past—
And every breeze, as with a spirit’s tone,
Doth waft the voices of Oblivion back,
Waking the soul to lofty memories,
Is there a scene whose loveliness could fill
The heart with peace more pure?—Nor yet art thou,
Proud stream! without thy records—graven deep
On yon eternal hills, which shall endure
Long as their summits breast the win’try storm,
Or smile in the warm sunshine. They have been
The chroniclers of centuries gone by:
Of a strange race, who trod perchance their sides,
Ere these gray woods had sprouted from the earth
Which now they shade. Here onward swept thy waves,
When tones now silent mingled with their sound,
And the wide shore was vocal with the song
Of hunter chief, or lover’s gentle strain.
Those passed away—forgotten as they passed;
But holier recollections dwell with thee:
Here hath immortal Freedom built her proud
And solemn monuments. The mighty dust
Of heroes in her cause of glory fallen,
Hath mingled with the soil, and hallowed it.
Thy waters in their brilliant path have seen
The desperate strife that won a rescued world—
The deeds of men who live in grateful hearts,
And hymned their requiem.
Far beyond this vale
That sends to heaven its incense of lone flowers,
Gay village spires ascend—and the glad voice
Of industry is heard.—So in the lapse
Of future years these ancient woods shall bow
Beneath the levelling axe—and Man’s abodes
Displace their sylvan honors. They will pass
In turn away;—yet heedless of all change,
Surviving all, thou still wilt murmur on,
Lessoning the fleeting race that look on thee
To mark the wrecks of time, and read their doom.