FALLS OF THE MOHAWK.

ROM rise of morn till set of sun

FROM

I've seen the mighty Mohawk run;
And as I marked the woods of pine
Along his mirror darkly shine,
Like tall and gloomy forms that pass
Before the wizard's midnight glass;
And as I viewed the hurrying pace
With which he ran his turbid race,

Rushing, alike untired and wild,

Through shades that frowned and flowers that smiled,

Flying by every green recess

That wooed him to its calm caress,

Yet, sometimes turning with the wind,

As if to leave one look behind,

Oft have I thought, and thinking sighed,
How like to thee, thou restless tide,
May be the lot, the life of him

Who roams along thy water's brim;
Through what alternate wastes of woe
And flowers of joy my path may go;
How many a sheltered, calm retreat
May woo the while my weary feet,
While still pursuing, still unblest,
I wander on, nor dare to rest;
But, urgent as the doom that calls
Thy water to its destined falls,
I feel the world's bewildering force
Hurry my heart's devoted course

120

From lapse to lapse, till life be done,
And the spent current cease to run.

One only prayer I dare to make,
As onward thus my course I take,
Oh, be my falls as bright as thine!
May heaven's relenting rainbow shine
Upon the mist that circles me,
As soft as now it hangs o'er thee!

Thomas Moore

Mongaup, the River, N. Y.

STRU

THE FALLS OF THE MONGAUP.

TRUGGLING along the mountain path,
We hear, amid the gloom,

Like a roused giant's voice of wrath,

A deep-toned, sullen boom:

Emerging on the platform high,

Burst sudden to the startled eye

Rocks, woods, and waters, wild and rude,

A scene of savage solitude.

Swift as an arrow from the bow,

Headlong the torrent leaps,

Then tumbling round, in dazzling snow

And dizzy whirls it sweeps;

Then, shooting through the narrow aisle
Of this sublime cathedral pile,