The time has been,—so Indian legends say,— When here the mighty Delaware poured not His ancient waters through—but turned aside Through yonder dell, and washed those shaded vales. Then, too, these riven cliffs were one smooth hill, Which smiled in the warm sunbeams, and displayed The wealth of summer on its graceful slope. Thither the hunter chieftains oft repaired To light their council fires,—while its dim height, For ever veiled in mist, no mortal dared— 'Tis said—to scale; save one white-haired old man, Who there held commune with the Indian's God, And thence brought down to men his high commands. Years passed away—the gifted seer had lived Beyond life's natural term, and bent no more His weary limbs to seek the mountain's summit. New tribes had filled the land, of fiercer mien, Who strove against each other. Blood and death Filled those green shades, where all before was peace, And the stern warrior scalped his dying captive E'en on the precincts of that holy spot Where the Great Spirit had been. Some few, who mourned The unnatural slaughter, urged the aged priest Again to seek the consecrated height, Succour from heaven, and mercy to implore.— They watched him from afar. He laboured slowly High up the steep ascent—and vanished soon Behind the folded clouds, which clustered dark As the last hues of sunset passed away. The night fell heavily—and soon were heard Low tones of thunder from the mountain top, Muttering, and echoed from the distant hills In deep and solemn peal,—while lurid flashes Of lightning rent anon the gathering gloom. Then wilder and more loud, a fearful crash Burst on the startled ear;—the earth, convulsed, Groaned from its solid centre—forests shook For leagues around,—and by the sudden gleam Which flung a fitful radiance on the spot, A sight of dread was seen. The mount was rent From top to base—and where so late had smiled Green boughs and blossoms—yawned a frightful chasm, Filled with unnatural darkness.—From afar The distant roar of waters then was heard; They came—with gathering sweep—o'erwhelming all That checked their headlong course;—the rich maize field,— The low-roofed hut—its sleeping inmates—all— Were swept in speedy, undistinguished ruin. Morn looked upon the desolated scene Of the Great Spirit's anger—and beheld Strange waters passing through the cloven rocks:— And men looked on in silence and in fear, And far removed their dwellings from the spot, Where now no more the hunter chased his prey, Or the war-whoop was heard.—Thus years went on: Each trace of desolation vanished fast; Those bare and blackened cliffs were overspread With fresh green foliage, and the swelling earth Yielded her stores of flowers to deck their sides. The river passed majestically on Through his new channel—verdure graced his banks;— The wild bird murmured sweetly as before In its beloved woods,—and nought remained,— Save the wild tales which chieftains told,— To mark the change celestial vengeance wrought.
SONG OF THE HERMIT TROUT.
BY W. P. HAWES.
Down in the deep Dark holes I keep, And there in the noontide I float and sleep, By the hemlock log, And the springing bog, And the arching alders, I lie incog.
The angler's fly Comes dancing by, But never a moment it cheats my eye; For the hermit trout Is not such a lout As to be by a wading boy pulled out.
King of the brook, No fisher's hook Fills me with dread of the sweaty cook; But here I lie, And laugh as they try; Shall I bite at their bait? No, no; not I!
But when the streams, With moonlight beams, Sparkle all silver, and starlight gleams, Then, then look out For the hermit trout; For he springs and dimples the shallows about, While the tired angler dreams.