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As twilight darkens into night,
Still dash the waters in their flight,
Still the ice-fragments, thick and fast,
Shoot like the clouds before the blast.

Beyond, the sinuous channel wends
Through a deep, narrow gorge, and bends
With curve so sharp, the drifting ice,

Hurled by the flood's tremendous might, Piles the opposing precipice,

And every fragment swells the height; Hour after hour uprears the wall, Until a barrier huge and tall

Breasts the wild waves that vain upswell
To overwhelm the obstacle :

They bathe the alder on the verge,
The leaning hemlock now they merge,
The stately elm is dwindling low
Within the deep ingulfing flow,

Till, curbed thus in its headlong flight,
With its accumulated might,

The river, turning on its track,

Rolls its broad-spreading volumes back.

The raftman slumbers; through his dream
Distorted visions wildly stream;
Now in the wood his axe he swings,
And now his saw-mill's jarring rings;
Now his huge raft is shooting swift
Cochecton's wild, tumultuous rift,
Now floats it on the ebon lap
Of the grim shadowed Water Gap,

And now 't is tossing on the swells
Fierce dashing down the slope of Wells.
The rapids crash upon his ear,

The deep sounds roll more loud and near, They fill his dream, he starts, he wakes! The moonlight through the casement falls, Ha! the wild sight that on him breaks,

The floods sweep round his cabin-walls. Beneath their bounding, thundering shocks The frail log fabric groans and rocks; Crash, crash! the ice-bolts round it shiver; The walls like blast-swept branches quiver; His wife is clinging to his breast, The child within his arm is prest;

He staggers through the chilly flood

That numbs his limbs, and checks his blood. On, on he strives the waters lave

:

Higher his form with every wave;
They steep his breast, on each side dash
The splintered ice with thundering crash;
A fragment strikes him; ha! he reels;
That shock in every nerve he feels;
Faster, bold raftman, speed thy way,
The waves roar round thee for their prey;
The cabin totters, — sinks, — the flood
Rolls its mad surges where it stood:
Before thy straining sight, the hill
Sleeps in the moonlight, bright and still.
Falter not, falter not, struggle on,
That goal of safety may be won;
Heavily droops thy wife with fear,

Thy boy's shrill shriekings fill thine ear;
Urge, urge thy strength to where outfling
Yon cedar-branches for thy cling.

Joy, raftman, joy! thy need is past,
The wished-for goal is won at last.
Joy, raftman, joy! thy quick foot now

Is resting on the upland's brow.

Praise to high Heaven! each knee is bent,

And every heart in prayer of grateful love is blent.

Alfred Billings Street.

THE DELAWARE WATER-GAP..

UR western land can boast no lovelier spot.

OUR

The hills which in their ancient grandeur stan Piled to the frowning clouds, the bulwarks seem Of this wild scene, resolved that none but Heaven Shall look upon its beauty. Round their breast A curtained fringe depends, of golden mist, Touched by the slanting sunbeams; while below The silent river, with majestic sweep, Pursues his shadowed way, his glassy face Unbroken, save when stoops the lone wild swan To float in pride, or dip his ruffled wing. Talk ye of solitude? It is not here.

Nor silence. Low, deep murmurs are abroad. Those towering hills hold converse with the sky That smiles upon their summits; and the wind Which stirs their wooded sides whispers of life, And bears the burden sweet from leaf to leaf, Bidding the stately forest-boughs look bright,

And nod to greet his coming! And the brook,
That with its silvery gleam comes leaping down
From the hillside, has, too, a tale to tell;

The wild bird's music mingles with its chime;
And gay young flowers, that blossom in its path,
Send forth their perfume as an added gift.
The river utters, too, a solemn voice,
And tells of deeds long past, in ages gone,
When not a sound was heard along his shores,
Save the wild tread of savage feet, or shriek
Of some expiring captive, and no bark
E'er cleft his gloomy waters. Now, his waves
Are vocal often with the hunter's song;
Now visit, in their glad and onward course,
The abodes of happy men, — gardens and fields,
And cultured plains, still bearing, as they pass,
Fertility renewed and fresh delights.

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Ruthless hands are laid:
Down the old house goes!

See the ancient manse
Meet its fate at last!
Time, in his advance,

Age nor honor knows;
Axe and broadaxe fall,
Lopping off the Past:
Hit with bar and maul,

Down the old house goes!

Sevenscore years it stood:
Yes, they built it well,
Though they built of wood,
When that house arose.

For its cross-beams square
Oak and walnut fell;
Little worse for wear,

Down the old house goes!

Rending board and plank,
Men with crowbars ply,
Opening fissures dank,

Striking deadly blows.

From the gabled roof
How the shingles fly!
Keep you here aloof,

Down the old house goes!

Holding still its place,

There the chimney stands,

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