Who loveth not our river?
With its bright and silver wave,
That glides so noiselessly along
To find its ocean grave.
Year after year, it hath wound its way,
And 'tis passing now, as 'twas yesterday..
The hills to us have voices,
That tell of happy hours
When childhood in its playfulness,.
Sought only gayest flowers,
And found them in each wild and glen,
For life had only sunshine then..
The same rich voiceless music,
Hath the river we love so well,
And the hills are green and as beautiful now,
As our childhood days could tell,
Then why is the heart like an iceberg to day :
Why wanders the fancy so far away?
The early loved-where are they?
The pictures all as fair?
Why come not their sweet voices
They are sleeping now on our own green hill, And the voices we loved once, forever are still.
The lingering sunlight resteth
Awhile for the eager eye,
To catch in our own dear river
The image of hill and sky.
We may gaze a moment, for all is fair,
Then look to Heaven-the lost are there.
At the gray hour of morn alone I stood
On Ida's summit. Fruits and fragrant flowers,
Show'd Nature in her beautiful attire,-
O'erlooking as in scorn the works of art.
Oh Nature, ever charming! In the wild
Where tuneful birds their joyous notes prolong-
In the deep silence of the lonely vale,
And in the cultivated fields, I love thee still,
And in thy calm retreats would end my days.
But not attractive Nature's charms alone
Engage my mind. Here Industry and Art
Display their wondrous trophies to my view,
And show how knowledge adds to human power.
Here once the red man stood. And as he look'd
Upon the hills with towering forests crown'd,
Heard the loud music of the waterfalls, and saw
The mighty river coursing through the vale,
He gazed and wondered! Yet his untaught soul
Dream'd not how for the benefit of man
Might these be made to minister.
On whom the light of science shone, usurp'd
The red man's fair domain, and Oh, how chang'd
The scenes now rising on th' admiring view.
Art has not conquered Nature, but combin'd
The benefits of both.-Has taught the cataract
To spring the shuttle and to turn the wheel,
And, yielding all her might to man's control,
To do the work of thousands. Man has made
The hissing steam to do his bidding. Cag'd
In ponderous iron, it propels the boat
Or moves the car with the wild tempest's speed!
E'en now that floating palace moves along
O'er the deep waters with a giant's power,
And yet so gently that a child might guide.
Up yonder hill ascends the lengthened train
Where man on business or on pleasure bent
Reposing on his velvet couch, flies on
Swift as the wind! From mill and workshop rise
The smoky volumes, as in various ways
The power of steam is made to minister
To man's convenience.
To work her wonders! Can that glittering wire
That stretches through the valley, say, proud man,
Can that be brought into thy service too?
Surpassing wonder! 'tis the chain that binds
The lightning's wing! and gives her flash a tongue
To speed his messages across the world!
Troy, thou art one. In name and interest one. What though a river separates? From Ida's height
Thou seem'st united, and thou shalt be one.
Commerce extends her arteries through thy heart,
And the warm current freely circulates.—
Those richly freighted boats that pass along
The broad canal, are Clinton's gift. To him
Were given the mind to plan and strength to
How art improves on nature! Hudson's wave
Was no less ample when the light canoe
Alone disturb'd its waters. Fulton gave
The Steamboat to mankind, and while it rolls,
The Hudson shall pay tribute to his fame.
Where Poestenkill so wildly dashes down,
Wasting its waters in the deep ravine,
Art cuts a channel through the solid rock
And builds the looms, and weaves the fabrics fine.
Thus gather's wealth flows through a thousand rills
To cheer and recompense industrious toil.
So through long ages ran the grand Cohoes
Wasting their might upon the rocks below,
Till enterprise and art combined to turn
These rolling waters to the use of man.
But why attempt in verse these busy scenes?
Ida is not Parnassus, and the Nine
Lend no inspiring aid. Yet would I own,
While praising thus fair Nature's works and Art's,
A higher Power than Nature. In His works
I read His goodness that arrays the fields
In verdant beauty, and bestows on man
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