THE HUDSON.
BY MARGARETTA V. FAUGERES, 1793.
Through many a blooming wild and woodland green The Hudson's sleeping waters winding stray; Now 'mongst the hills its silvery waves are seen, And now through arching willows steal away: Now more majestic rolls the ample tide, Tall waving elms its clovery borders shade, And many a stately dome, in ancient pride, And hoary grandeur, there exalts its head.
There trace the marks of culture's sunburnt hand, The honeyed buck-wheat's clustering blossoms view, Dripping rich odours, mark the beard-grain bland, The loaded orchard, and the flax field blue; The grassy hill, the quivering poplar grove, The copse of hazel, and the tufted bank, The long green valley where the white flocks rove, The jutting rock, o'erhung with ivy dank; The tall pines waving on the mountain's brow, Whose lofty spires catch day's last lingering beam; The bending willow weeping o'er the stream, The brook's soft gurglings, and the garden's glow.
Low sunk between the Alleganian hills, For many a league the sullen waters glide, And the deep murmur of the crowded tide, With pleasing awe the wondering voyager fills. On the green summit of yon lofty clift A peaceful runnel gurgles clear and slow, Then down the craggy steep-side dashing swift, Tremendous falls in the white surge below. Here spreads a clovery lawn its verdure far, Around it mountains vast their forests rear, And long ere day hath left its burnish'd car, The dews of night have shed their odours there. There hangs a loüring rock across the deep; Hoarse roar the waves its broken base around; Through its dark caverns noisy whirlwinds sweep, While Horror startles at the fearful sound. The shivering sails that cut the fluttering breeze, Glide through these winding rocks with airy sweep: Beneath the cooling glooms of waving trees, And sloping pastures speck'd with fleecy sheep.
TRENTON FALLS, NEAR UTICA.
BY ANTHONY BLEECKER.
Ob: 1827.