American Female Poets [an electronic edition]

SUSQUEHANNA.

SOFTLY the blended light of evening rests Upon thee, lovely stream! Thy gentle tide, Picturing the gorgeous beauty of the sky, Onward, unbroken by the ruffling wind, Majestically flows. Oh! by thy side, Far from the tumults and the throng of men, And the vain cares that vex poor human life, 'T were happiness to dwell, alone with thee, And the wide solemn grandeur of the scene. From thy green shores, the mountains that enclose In their vast sweep the beauties of the plain, Slowly receding, toward the skies ascend, Enrobed with clustering woods o'er which the smile

Of Autumn in his loveliness hath pass'd, Touching their foliage with his brilliant hues, And flinging o'er the lowliest leaf and shrub His golden livery. On the distant heights Soft clouds, earth-based, repose, and stretch afar Their burnish'd summits in the clear blue heaven, Flooded with splendour, that the dazzled eye Turns drooping from the sight. —Nature is here Like a throned sovereign, and thy voice doth tell In music never silent, of her power. Nor are thy tones unanswer'd, where she builds Such monuments of regal sway. These wide Untrodden forests eloquently speak, Whether the breath of summer stir their depths, Or the hoarse moaning of November's blast Strip from the boughs their covering.

All the air Is now instinct with life. The merry hum Of the returning bee, and the blithe song Of fluttering bird, mocking the solitude, Swell upward —and the play of dashing streams From the green mountain side is faintly heard. The wild swan swims the waters' azure breast With graceful sweep, or startled, soars away, Cleaving with mounting wing the clear bright ai.

Oh! in the boasted lands beyond the deep, Where Beauty hath a birth-right —where each mound And mouldering ruin tells of ages past — And every breeze, as with a spirit's tone, Doth waft the voices of Oblivion back, Waking the soul to lofty memories, Is there a scene whose loveliness could fill The heart with peace more pure? —Nor yet art thou, Proud stream! without thy records —graven deep

On yon eternal hills, which shall endure Long as their summits breast the wint'ry storm Or smile in the warm sunshine. They have been The chroniclers of centuries gone by: Of a strange race, who trod perchance their sides, Ere these gray woods had sprouted from the earth Which now they shade. Here onward swept thy waves, When tones now silent mingled with their sound, And the wide shore was vocal with the song Of hunter chief, or lover's gentle strain. Those pass'd away — forgotten as they pass'd; But holier recollections dwell with thee: Here hath immortal Freedom built her proud And solemn monuments. The mighty dust Of heroes in her cause of glory fallen, Hath mingled with the soil, and hallow'd it. Thy waters in their brilliant path have seen The desperate strife that won a rescued world —The deeds of men who live in grateful hearts, And hymn'd their requiem.

Far beyond this vale That sends to heaven its incense of lone flowers, Gay village spires ascend —and the glad voice Of industry is heard. —So in the lapse Of future years those ancient woods shall bow Beneath the levelling axe —and Man's abodes Display their sylvan honours. They will pass In turn away; —yet heedless of all change, Surviving all, thou still wilt murmur on, Lessoning the fleeting race that look on thee To mark the wrecks of thee, and read their doom.