The mountain's mirror'd outline fades Amid the fast extending shades; Its shaggy bulk, in sterner pride, Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide; For the great stream a bulwark meet That laves its rock-encumbered feet.
River and Mountain! though to song Not yet, perchance, your names belong; Those who have loved your evening hues Will ask not the recording Muse, What antique tales she can relate, Your banks and steeps to consecrate.
Yet should the stranger ask, what lore Of by-gone days, this winding shore, Yon cliffs and fir-clad steeps could tell, If vocal made by Fancy's spell,— The varying legend might rehearse Fit themes for high, romantic verse.
O'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sod Oft hath the stalworth warrior trod; Or peer'd, with hunter's gaze, to mark The progress of the glancing bark. Spoils, strangely won on distant waves, Have lurked in yon obstructed caves.
When the great strife for Freedom rose Here scouted oft her friends and foes, Alternate, through the changeful war, And beacon-fires flashed bright and far; And here, when Freedom's strife was won, Fell, in sad feud, her favoured son;—
Her son,—the second of the band, The Romans of the rescued land. Where round yon cape the banks ascend, Long shall the pilgrim's footsteps bend; There, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh, There, tears shall dim the patriot's eye.
There last he stood. Before his sight Flowed the fair river, free and bright; The rising Mart, and Isles, and Bay, Before him in their glory lay,— Scenes of his love and of his fame,— The instant ere the death-shot came.
LINES WRITTEN ON A BANK NOTE.
BY T. W. TUCKER.