Part 6

Pure Horicon! glassing the brows of the mountains, As handmaid might bend to a conqueror’s will, Although nurtured and swelled by the commonest fountains Yet pure and transparent and beautiful still! No wonder the men of the cross and the missal Once named it “The Lake of the Sacrament” pure, Or that far leagues away, from some holiest vessel, Its drops on the forehead could comfort and cure.

On the fair silver lake drives the Indian no longer, With the sweep of his paddle, the birchen canoe; And the fortresses fall that made weakness the stronger, And saved the white maid when the war-whistle blew. But ’tis well that the old and the savage are fated, And that danger rolls back from the Edens of earth; Our boats glide as well with all loveliness freighted, And the war-whoop we lose in the sallies of mirth.

Pure Horicon! lake of the cloud and the shadow! Soft shimmer your moonlight and dimple your rain! And the hearts far away—if by seaside or meadow— Still think of your blue with a lingering pain! Among the far islands that glitter in heaven,— On the dim, undiscovered, and beautiful shore,— Some glimpse of a lovelier sea may be given To the eyes of the perfect,—but never before!

HENRY MORFORD.

THE CATTERSKILL FALLS.

FROM the precipice whence our first view of this Fall is taken, the descent is steep and slippery to the very brink of the torrent, which it is necessary to cross on the wild blocks that lie scattered in its rocky bed. From thence, literally buried in forest foliage, the tourist will enjoy a very different, but perhaps more striking and picturesque, view than the other. The stream, at a vast height above him, is seen leaping from ledge to ledge,—sometimes lost, sometimes sparkling in sunshine, till it courses impetuously beneath the rock on which he is seated, and is lost in the deep unbroken obscurity of the forest. The rocky ledges above, worn by time, have the appearance of deep caverns, and beautifully relieve the fall of the light and silvery stream. In the winter, the vast icicles which are suspended from the ledges of rock, and shine like pillars against the deep obscurity of the caverns behind, afford a most romantic spectacle, one which has afforded a subject to Bryant for one of the most imaginative of his poems.

THE WRECK OF THE ANCIENT COASTER.

HER side is in the water, Her keel is in the sand, And her bowsprit rest on the low gray rock That bounds the sea and land.

Her deck is without a mast, And sand and shells are there, And the teeth of decay are gnawing her planks In the sun and the sultry air.

No more on the river’s bosom, When sky and wave are calm, And the clouds are in summer quietness, And the cool night-breath is balm,

Will she glide in the swan-like stillness Of the moon in the blue above,— A messenger from other lands, A beacon to hope and love.

No more in the midnight tempest Will she mock the mounting sea, Strong in her oaken timbers, And her white sail’s bravery.

She hath borne, in days departed, Warm hearts upon her deck; Those hearts, like her, are mouldering now, The victims and the wreck

Of time, whose touch erases Each vestige of all we love; The wanderers, home returning, Who gazed that deck above,

And they who stood to welcome Their loved ones on that shore, Are gone,—and the place that knew them Shall know them nevermore.

. . . . . . . . .

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

HUDSON RIVER.

RIVERS that roll most musical in song Are often lovely to the mind alone; The wanderer muses, as he moves along Their barren banks, on glories not their own.

When, to give substance to his boyish dreams, He leaves his own, far countries to survey, Oft must he think, in greeting foreign streams, “Their names alone are beautiful, not they.”

If chance he mark the dwindled Arno pour A tide more meagre than his native Charles; Or views the Rhone when summer’s heat is o’er, Subdued and stagnant in the fen of Arles;

Or when he sees the slimy Tiber fling His sullen tribute at the feet of Rome,— Oft to his thought must partial memory bring More noble waves, without renown, at home.

Now let him climb the Catskill, to behold The lordly Hudson, marching to the main, And say what bard, in any land of old, Had such a river to inspire his strain!

Along the Rhine gray battlements and towers Declare what robbers once the realm possessed; But here Heaven’s handiwork surpasseth ours, And man has hardly more than built his nest.

No storied castle overawes these heights, Nor antique arches check the current’s play, Nor mouldering architrave the mind invites To dream of deities long passed away.

No Gothic buttress, or decaying shaft Of marble, yellowed by a thousand years, Lifts a great land-mark to the little craft,— A summer cloud! that comes and disappears.

But cliffs, unaltered from their primal form Since the subsiding of the deluge, rise And hold their savins to the upper storm, While far below the skiff securely plies.

Farms, rich not more in meadows than in men Of Saxon mould, and strong for every toil, Spread o’er the plain or scatter through the glen Bœotian plenty on a Spartan soil.

Then, where the reign of cultivation ends, Again the charming wilderness begins; From steep to steep one solemn wood extends, Till some new hamlet’s rise the boscage thins.

And these deep groves forever have remained Touched by no axe, by no proud owner nursed; As now they stand they stood when Pharaoh reigned, Lineal descendants of creation’s first.

. . . . . . . . .

No tales we know are chronicled of thee In ancient scrolls; no deeds of doubtful claim Have hung a history on every tree, And given each rock its fable and a fame.

But neither here hath any conqueror trod, Nor grim invaders from barbarian climes; No horrors feigned of giant or of god Pollute thy stillness with recorded crimes.

Here never yet have happy fields laid waste, The ravished harvest and the blasted fruit, The cottage ruined and the shrine defaced, Tracked the foul passage of the feudal brute.

“Yet, O Antiquity!” the stranger sighs, “Scenes wanting thee soon pall upon the view; The soul’s indifference dulls the sated eyes, Where all is fair indeed,—but all is new.”

False thought! Is age to crumbling walls confined? To Grecian fragments and Egyptian bones? Hath Time no monuments to raise the mind, More than old fortresses and sculptured stones?

Call not this new which is the only land That wears unchanged the same primeval face Which, when just dawning from its Maker’s hand, Gladdened the first great grandsire of our race.

Nor did Euphrates with an earlier birth Glide past green Eden towards the unknown south, Than Hudson broke upon the infant earth, And kissed the ocean with his nameless mouth.

Twin-born with Jordan, Ganges, and the Nile! Thebes and the pyramids to thee are young! Oh, had thy waters burst from Britain’s isle, Till now perchance they had not flowed unsung.

THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.

UNDERCLIFF, NEAR COLD-SPRING.

(The seat of the late General Morris.) [Illustration]

THE pen of the poet and the pencil of the artist have so frequently united to record the grandeur and sublimity of the Hudson, and with such graphic fidelity, that little of interest remains unsaid or unsketched. But when every point of its bold and beautiful scenery might be made the subject of a picture, and every incident of its past history the theme of a poem, it requires no great research to discover new and prominent objects of attraction. Perhaps there is no portion of this beautiful river which partakes more of the picturesque, or combines more of the wild and wonderful, than the vicinity of the present view; and when time shall touch the history of the present with the wand of tradition, and past events shall live in the memory of the future as legends, romance will never revel in a more bewitching region. Fiction shall then fling its imaginative veil over the things we have seen, covering but not concealing them, and in the plentitude of poetic genius people the drama of futurity with a thousand exquisite creations, clothed in the venerated garb of antiquity.

Undercliff, the mansion of the late General George P. Morris, which forms the principal object in the engraving, is situated upon an elevated plateau, rising from the eastern shore of the river; and the selection of such a commanding and beautiful position at once decides the taste of its intellectual proprietor. In the rear of the villa, cultivation has placed her fruit and forest trees with a profuse hand, and fertilized the fields with a variety of vegetable products. The extent of the grounds is abruptly terminated by the base of a rocky mountain, that rises nearly perpendicular to its summit, and affords in winter a secure shelter from the bleak blasts of the north. In front, a circle of greensward is refreshed by a fountain in the centre, gushing from a Grecian vase, and encircled by ornamental shrubbery; from thence a gravelled walk winds down a gentle declivity to a second plateau, and again descends to the entrance of the carriage road, which leads upwards along the left slope of the hill through a noble forest, the growth of many years, until suddenly emerging from its sombre shades, the visitor beholds the mansion before him in the bright blaze of day. A few openings in the wood afford an opportunity to catch a glimpse of the water, sparkling with reflected light; and the immediate transition from shadow to sunshine is peculiarly pleasing.

Although the sunny prospects from the villa—of the giant mountains in their eternal verdure, the noble stream when frequent gusts ruffle its surface into a thousand waves, the cluster of white cottages collected into the distant village—are glorious, it is only by the lovely light of the moon, when Nature is in repose, that their magic influence is fully felt. We were fortunate in having an opportunity to contemplate the scene at such an hour. The moon had risen from a mass of clouds which formed a line across the sky so level that fancy saw her ascending from the dark sea, and her silvery light lay softened on the landscape; silence was over all, save where the dipping of a distant oar was echoed from the deep shadows of the rocks. Sometimes the white sail of a sloop would steal into sight from the deep gloom, like some shrouded spirit gliding from the confines of a giant’s cavern, recalling the expressive lines by Moore:—

“The stream is like a silvery lake, And o’er its face each vessel glides Gently, as if it feared to wake The slumber of the silent tides.”

General Morris published some time ago a volume of lyrical effusions, called “The Deserted Bride, and other Poems.” Many of them have been written among the fairy beauties of Undercliff, and under the inspiration of that true poetic feeling which such enchanting scenes are so likely to elicit. Where so many gems of genius enrich a work, it becomes difficult to decide upon that most worthy of selection. It is not our province or intention to review the volume, but we cannot resist the inclination to make an extract, because it seems so beautiful an accessory to the subject, and must create an added interest in the engraving. Where scenes are so replete with the poetry of Nature, they are best illustrated by the poetry of numbers; but we were particularly delighted with the following lines, addressed to his young daughter. The natural simplicity of the subject is well expressed by the purity of its poetic images, and breathes the refinement of paternal affection.

IDA.

WHERE Hudson’s wave, o’er silvery sands, Winds through the hills afar, Old Cro’nest like a monarch stands, Crowned with a single star: And there, amid the billowy swells Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capt earth, My fair and gentle IDA dwells, A nymph of mountain birth.

The snow-curl that the cliff receives, The diamonds of the showers, Spring’s tender blossoms, buds and leaves, The sisterhood of flowers,— Morn’s early beam, eve’s balmy breeze, Her purity define; But IDA’S dearer far than these To this fond breast of mine.

My heart is on the hills. The shades Of night are on my brow; Ye pleasant haunts and silent glades, My soul is with you now! I bless the star-crowned islands where My IDA’S footsteps roam,— Oh for a falcon’s wing to bear Me onward to my home!

AUSABLE.

THE twilight on Ausable By rock and river fell; With tints of rose-veined marble It glimmered through the dell.

Shadows on tree and river In stately grandeur hung; There Nature sings forever What poets have not sung.

The dark rocks, proudly lifted, Uprear their rugged form Like giants,—nobly gifted To breast the torrent’s storm.

Dim mystery forever Here chants a song sublime, While onward rolls the river Unchangeable as time.

From soul to soul is spoken What lips cannot impart; And the silence is but broken By the throbbing of the heart.

The evening sky in glory Lights the massy, rifted wall, And with many a wondrous story Fancy paints the waterfall,

Of the savage freely roving In a scene as wild as he; Of the Indian maiden loving With a spirit full of glee.

. . . . . . . . .

Yet though Indian maid and lover Have forever passed away, We may dream their visions over, And may love as well as they!

On the borders of the river We may whisper ere we part Songs whose music clings forever Round the memories of the heart.

We may catch an inspiration From dark river, rock, and fall, And a higher adoration For the Spirit over all!

OLIVER WENDELL WITHINGTON.

WINTER SCENE ON THE CATTERSKILLS.

THE great proportion of evergreen trees, shrubs, and creepers in the American mountains makes the winter scenery less dreary than might at first be imagined; but even the nakedness of the deciduous trees is not long observable. The first snow clothes them in a dress so feathery and graceful that, like a change in the costume of beauty, it seems lovelier than the one put off; and the constant renewal of its freshness and delicacy goes on with a variety and novelty which is scarce dreamed of by those who see snow only in cities, or in countries where it is rare.

The roads in so mountainous a region as the Catterskills are in winter not only difficult, but dangerous. The following extracts from an account of a sleigh-ride in a more level part of the country will serve to give an idea of it:—

“As we got farther on, the new snow became deeper. The occasional farm-houses were almost wholly buried, the black chimney alone appearing above the ridgy drifts; while the tops of the doors and windows lay below the level of the trodden road, from which a descending passage was cut to the threshold, like the entrance to a cave in the earth. The fences were quite invisible. The fruit-trees looked diminished to shrubberies of snow-flowers, their trunks buried under the visible surface, and their branches loaded with the still falling flakes, till they bent beneath the burden. Nothing was abroad, for nothing could stir out of the road without danger of being lost; and we dreaded to meet even a single sleigh, lest in turning out the horses should ‘slump’ beyond their depth in the untrodden drifts. The poor animals began to labor severely, and sank at every step over their knees in the clogging and wool-like substance; and the long and cumbrous sleigh rose and fell in the deep pits like a boat in a heavy sea. It seemed impossible to get on. Twice we brought up with a terrible plunge, and stood suddenly still; for the runners had struck in too deep for the strength of the horses, and with the snow-shovels, which formed a part of the furniture of the vehicle, we dug them from their concrete beds. Our progress at last was reduced to scarce a mile in the hour, and we began to have apprehensions that our team would give out between the post-houses. Fortunately it was still warm, for the numbness of cold would have paralyzed our already flagging exertions.

“We had reached the summit of a long hill with the greatest difficulty. The poor beasts stood panting and reeking with sweat; the runners of the sleigh were clogged with hard cakes of snow, and the air was close and dispiriting. We came to a stand-still, with the vehicle lying over almost on its side; and I stepped out to speak to the driver and look forward. It was a discouraging prospect; a long deep valley lay before us, closed at the distance of a couple of miles by another steep hill, through a cleft in the top of which lay our way: we could not even distinguish the line of the road between. Our disheartened animals stood at this moment buried to their breasts; and to get forward, without rearing at every step, seemed impossible. The driver sat on his box, looking uneasily down into the valley. It was one undulating ocean of snow,—not a sign of a human habitation to be seen, and even the trees indistinguishable from the general mass by their whitened and overladen branches. The storm had ceased, but the usual sharp cold that succeeds a warm fall of snow had not yet lightened the clamminess of the new-fallen flakes, and they clung around the foot like clay, rendering every step a toil.

“We heaved out of the pit into which the sleigh had settled, and for the first mile it was down hill, and we got on with comparative ease. The sky was by this time almost bare, a dark slaty mass of clouds alone settling on the horizon in the quarter of the wind; while the sun, as powerless as moonlight, poured with dazzling splendor on the snow, and the gusts came keen and bitter across the sparkling waste, rimming the nostrils as if with bands of steel, and penetrating to the innermost nerve with their pungent iciness. No protection seemed of any avail. The whole surface of the body ached as if it were laid against a slab of ice. The throat closed instinctively, and contracted its unpleasant respiration. The body and limbs drew irresistibly together to economize, like a hedge-hog, the exposed surface. The hands and feet felt transmuted to lead; and across the forehead, below the pressure of the cap, there was a binding and oppressive ache, as if a bar of frosty iron had been let into the skull. The mind, meantime, seemed freezing up,—unwillingness to stir, and inability to think of anything but the cold, becoming every instant more decided.

“From the bend of the valley our difficulties became more serious. The drifts often lay across the road like a wall, some feet above the heads of the horses; and we had dug through one or two, and had been once upset, and often near it, before we came to the steepest part of the ascent. The horses had by this time begun to feel the excitement of the rum given them by the driver at the last halt, and bounded on through the snow with continuous leaps, jerking the sleigh after them with a violence that threatened momently to break the traces. The steam from their bodies froze instantly, and covered them with a coat like hoar-frost; and spite of their heat, and the unnatural and violent exertions they were making, it was evident by the pricking of their ears and the sudden crouch of the body when a stronger blast swept over, that the cold struck through even their hot and intoxicated blood.

“We toiled up, leap after leap; and it seemed miraculous to me that the now infuriated animals did not burst a blood-vessel or crack a sinew with every one of those terrible springs. The sleigh plunged on after them, stopping dead and short at every other moment, and reeling over the heavy drifts like a boat in a surging sea. A finer crystallization had meanwhile taken place upon the surface of the moist snow; and the powdered particles flew almost insensibly on the blasts of wind, filling the eyes and hair, and cutting the skin with a sensation like the touch of needle-points. The driver and his maddened but almost exhausted team were blinded by the glittering and whirling eddies; the cold grew intenser every moment, the forward motion gradually less and less; and when, with the very last effort apparently, we reached a spot on the summit of the hill which from its exposed situation had been kept bare by the wind, the patient and persevering whip brought his horses to a stand, and despaired, for the first time, of his prospects of getting on.”

The description, which is too long to extract entire, details still severer difficulties; after which the writer and driver mounted the leaders, and finally arrived, nearly dead with cold, at the tavern. Such cold as is described here, however, is what is called “an old-fashioned spell,” and occurs now but seldom.

NEW YORK HARBOR ON A CALM DAY.

Is this a painting? Are those pictured clouds Which on the sky so movelessly repose? Has some rare artist fashioned forth the shrouds Of yonder vessel? Are these imaged shows Of outline, figure, form, or is there life— Life with a thousand pulses—in the scene We gaze upon? Those towering banks between, E’er tossed these billows in tumultuous strife? Billows! there’s not a wave! the waters spread One broad, unbroken mirror; all around Is hushed to silence,—silence so profound That a bird’s carol, or an arrow sped Into the distance, would, like larum bell, Jar the deep stillness and dissolve the spell.

PARK BENJAMIN.

University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in punctuation have been maintained.

Cover created for this ebook. Some illustrations moved to facilitate page layout.

[The end of _Forest, Rock, and Stream_, by N. P. (Nathaniel Parker) Willis.]