CATTERSKILL FALLS. MIDST greens and shades the Catterskill leaps, All summer he moistens his verdant steeps With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs; And he shakes the woods on the mountain side, When they drip with the rains of autumn tide. But when, in the forest bare and old, The blast of December calls, He builds, in the starlight clear and cold, For whom are those glorious chambers wrought, Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought 23-L & B-S 'Twas hither a youth of dreamy mood, A hundred winters ago, Had wandered over the mighty wood, When the panther's track was fresh on the snow, Too gentle of mien he seemed and fair, The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps; And here he paused, and against the trunk Of a tall gray linden leant, When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk From his path in the frosty firmament, And over the round dark edge of the hill A cold green light was quivering still. And the crescent moon, high over the green, On that icy palace, whose towers were seen Is that a being of life, that moves Where the crystal battlements rise? 'Tis only the torrent, tumbling o'er, In the midst of those glassy walls, 'Tis only the torrent - but why that start? He thinks no more of his home afar, Where his sire and sister wait. He heeds no longer how star after star Looks forth on the night, as the hour grows late He heeds not the snow-wreaths, lifted and cast From a thousand boughs, by the rising blast. His thoughts are alone of those who dwell Who pass where the crystal domes upswell Where the frost-trees bourgeon with leaf and spray, And frost-gems scatter a silvery day. "And oh that those glorious haunts were mine ! " He speaks, and throughout the glen 'Thin shadows swim in the faint moonshine, There are mothers—and oh how sadly their eyes On their children's white brows rest; There are youthful lovers — the maiden lies -- In a seeming sleep, on the chosen breast; There are fair wan women with moonstruck air, The snow stars flecking their long loose hair. They eye him not as they pass along, When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng, Till those icy turrets are over his head, And the torrent's roar as they enter seems Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams. The glittering threshold is scarcely passed, In which there is neither form nor sound; Slow passes the darkness of that trance, Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance On a couch of shaggy skins he lies; Hard-featured woodmen, with kindly eyes, They had found at eve the dreaming one By the base of that icy steep, The deadly slumber of frost to creep, And they cherished the pale and breathless form, Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm. |