’Tis the New alone gives daring thus to paint the shapes of Old:
From the deep full wind that sweepeth through thine own wild native woods,
From the organ-like grand cadence heard in autumn’s solemn floods,
Thou hast tuned the voice that thrills us with its modulated roll,
Echoing through the deepest caverns of the hearer’s startled soul:
From the tender blossoms blooming on our haughty torrents’ side—
Like some angel sent by Pity, preaching gentleness to Pride—
Thou didst learn such tender bearing, hushing every listener’s breath,
When in thee poor Lear, the crownless, totters gently down to death:
From the boundless lakes and rivers, from our broad continuous climes,