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