Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought
In forms so lovely and hues so bright?
Hear what the grey-haired woodmen tell
Of this wild stream, and its rocky dell.
“ ’Twas hither a youth of dreamy mood,
A hundred winters ago,
Had wandered over the mighty wood,
When the panther’s track was fresh on the snow;
And keen were the winds that came to stir
The long dark boughs of the hemlock fir.