LINES
On reaching the banks of the Mississippi at the junction of the Ohio, 1st July, 1818.
| Mighty stream, I see thee rushing Proudly, madly, wild along— Like a summer torrent, gushing Sudden, rapid, swift and strong. Now my prow is on thy waters, And I gaze with secret aim, To discover wherein centered, Lies the secret of thy fame. But I gaze in vain—thy billows Gurgle as they haste away; Could their sounds my soul unriddle, I might learn wherein it lay. I might learn that riven mountains, Headlong falls, unpencilled yet, Plains untravelled, thou hast wandered, Ere thy weary waters met. Plains! where still the Bison feeding, Paws in ire the solid ground— Or the fiery Bear, in fury, Sudden pours his lion-sound. In thy rushing roar of waters I might learn that rivers speak; Great Missouri cries—I mingle, Konza—ho! the sea I seek. Mild Ohio, sweet and mighty, In thy onward wave is lost, And a thousand lesser fountains, Pouring down a varied coast. In a region, drear and polar, Thou hast thy unnoticed rise, And dost issue where the solar Burning heats pervade the skies. Far beyond the white man's daring Sits the lordly Indian lone, Gazing on that rich creation Heaven, he deems, hath made his own. Length, and depth, and speed, and volume, All that swell o'er swell, create— These, perchance, thy sounds would tell me, These, these only, make thee great. 'Tis not clearness—'tis not brightness, Such as dwell in mountain brooks— 'Tis thy big, big, boiling torrent— 'Tis thy wild and angry looks. Flow then, river—rushing river— Flow, till thou invade the sea; Many millions, uncreated, Shall desire thy waves to see. But while millions uncreated, Sigh o'er millions pass'd away, Thou shalt roll, in all thy splendor, Till thy Maker bids thee stay. |
H. R. S.
Washington.