No classic page its story to reveal;
No nymph, or naïad, sporting in its glades;
No banks encrimsoned with heroic steel;
And haunted yet by dim poetic shades—
Its annals linger in the eternal rock,
Hoary with centuries; in cataracts that sing
To the dull ear of ages; in the shock
Of plunging glaciers that madly fling,
The forest like a flight of spears, aloft:
In wooded vales that spread beyond the view;