But he knew that his adventure continued to be true, for when he went to breakfast at daylight, he found he had no stomach.
THE PHANTOM ARCHITECT.
Four hundred miles of brawling through many a mountain pass,
From the shadow of the Catskills to the rocks of Havre de Grace,
The Susquehanna flashes by willowy isles of May
And deluges of April to the splendors of the bay.
It brings Otsego water and Juniata bright,
Chenango's sunny current and dark Swatara's night,
By booms of lumber winding and rafts of coal and ore,
And gliding barges crossing the dams from shore to shore.
It is an aisle of silver along the mountain nave,
Where towers the Alleghany reflected in its wave,
By many a mine of treasure and many a borough quaint,
And many a home of hero and tomb of simple saint.
The granite gates resign it to mingle with the bay,
And softened bars of mountain stand glowing o'er the way;
The wild game flock the offing; the great seine-barges go—
From battery to windlass, and singing as they row.
The negroes watch the lighthouse, the trains upon the bridge,
The little fisher's village strewn o'er the grassy ridge,
The cannoneers that, paddling in stealthy rafts of brush,
With their decoys around them, the juicy ducks do flush.
And oft by night, they whisper, a phantom architect
Lurks round the Cape of Havre, of ruined intellect,
Who had designed a city upon this eminence,
To cover all the headland and rule the land from hence.