Mount to the cloud-kissed summit. Far below Spreads the vast Champaign like a shoreless sea. Mark yonder narrow streamlet feebly flow, Like idle brook that creeps ingloriously; Can that the lovely, lordly Hudson be, Stealing by town and mountain? Who beholds, At break of day, this scene, when, silently, Its map of field, wood, hamlet is unroll'd, While, in the east, the sun uprears his locks of gold,
Till earth receive him never can forget. Even when returned amid the city's roar, The fairy vision haunts his memory yet, As in the sailor's fancy shines the shore. Imagination cons the moment o'er, When first discover'd, awe-struck and amazed. Scarce loftier, Jove—whom men and gods adore— On the extended earth beneath him gazed, Temple, and tower, and town, by human insect raised.
Blow, scented gale—the snowy canvass swell, And flow, thou silver, eddying current on. Grieve we to bid each lovely point farewell, That, ere its graces half are seen, is gone. By woody bluff we steal, by leaning lawn, By palace, village, cot, a sweet surprise, At every turn, the vision breaks upon, Till to our wondering and uplifted eyes The Highland rocks and hills in solemn grandeur rise,
Nor clouds in heaven, nor billows in the deep, More graceful shapes did ever heave or roll, Nor came such pictures to a painter's sleep, Nor beamed such visions on a poet's soul! The pent-up flood, impatient of control, In ages past, here broke its granite bound; Then to the sea, in broad meanders, stole; While ponderous ruins strewed the broken ground, And these gigantic hills for ever closed around.
And ever-wakeful echo here doth dwell, The nymph of sportive mockery, that still Hides behind every rock, in every dell, And softly glides, unseen, from hill to hill. No sound doth rise, but mimic it she will, The sturgeon's splash repeating from the shore, Aping the boy's voice with a voice as shrill, The bird's low warble, and the thunder's roar, Always she watches there, each murmur telling o'er.
Awake my lyre, with other themes inspired. Where yon bold point repels the crystal tide, The Briton youth, lamented and admired, His country's hope, her ornament and pride, A traitor's death, ingloriously died, On freedom's altar offered; in the sight Of God, by men who will their act abide, On the great day, and hold their deed aright, To stop the breath would quench young Freedom's holy light.
But see! the broadening river deeper flows, Its tribute floods intent to reach the sea, While, from the west, the fading sunlight throws Its softening hues on stream, and field and tree; All silent nature bathing, wondrously, In charms that soothe the heart with sweet desires, And thoughts of friends we ne'er again may see, Till lo! ahead, Manhatta's bristling spires, Above her thousand roofs red with day's dying fires.
May greet the wanderer of Columbia's shore, Proud Venice of the west! no lovelier scene. Of thy vast throngs, now faintly comes the roar, Though late like beating-ocean surf I ween— And every where thy various barks are seen, Cleaving the limpid floods that round thee flow, Encircled by thy banks of sunny green— The panting steamer plying to and fro, Or the tall sea-bound ship abroad on wings of snow.
And radiantly upon the glittering mass, The God of day his parting glances sends, As some warm soul, from earth about to pass, Back on its fading scenes and mourning friends, Deep words of love and looks of rapture bends, More bright and bright, as near their end they be. On, on, great orb! to earth's remotest ends, Each land irradiate, and every sea— But oh, my native land, not one, not one like thee!