It was the leafy month of June, And joyous Nature, all in tune, With wreathing buds was drest, As toward the mighty cataract's side A youthful stranger prest; His ruddy cheek was blanched with awe, And scarce he seemed his breath to draw, While bending o'er its brim, He marked its strong, unfathomed tide, And heard its thunder-hymn.
His measured week too quickly fled, Another, and another sped, And soon the summer-rose decayed, The moon of autumn sank in shade, And winter hurled its dart, Years filled their circle, brief and fair, Yet still the enthusiast lingered there, While deeper round his soul was wove A mystic chain of fearful love, That would not let him part.
When darkest midnight veiled the sky, You'd hear his hasting step go by, To gain the bridge beside the deep, That where its wildest torrents leap Hangs thread-like o'er the surge, Just there, upon its awful verge, His vigil-hour to keep.
And when the moon, descending low, Hung on the flood that gleaming bow, Which it would seem some angel's hand, With Heaven's own pencil, tinged and spanned, Pure symbol of a better land, He, kneeling, poured in utterance free The eloquence of ecstasy; Though to his words no answer came, Save that One, Everlasting Name, Which since Creation's morning broke Niagara's lip alone hath spoke.
When wintry tempests shook the sky, And the rent pine-tree hurtled by, Unblenching, 'mid the storm he stood, And marked sublime the wrathful flood, While wrought the frost-king, fierce and drear, His palace 'mid those cliffs to rear, And strike the massy buttress strong, And pile his sleet the rocks among, And wasteful deck the branches bare With icy diamonds, rich and rare.
Nor lacked the hermit's humble shed Such comforts as our natures ask To fit them for life's daily task. The cheering fire, the peaceful bed, The simple meal in season spread, While by the lone lamp's trembling light, As blazed the hearth-stone, clear and bright, O'er Homer's page he hung, Or Maro's martial numbers scanned--
For classic lore of many a land Flowed smoothly o'er his tongue. Oft with rapt eye, and skill profound, He woke the entrancing viol's sound, Or touched the sweet guitar. For heavenly music deigned to dwell An inmate in his cloistered cell, As beams the solem star, All night, with meditative eyes Where some lone, rock-bound fountain lies.