In vain o'er thee shall glow with wild delight, The painter's eye, and voiceless still shall be The poet's tongue, who from this giddy height Shall kindle in thine awful minstrelsy! Thou art too mighty in thy grandeur--we Too weak to give fit utterance to the soul! Thy billows mock us with their tempest glee, As thundering on, while countless ages roll, Thou scornest man's applause alike with man's control!
Yet standing here where mountain eagles soar, Among these toppling crags, to plant their nest, I catch an inspiration from thy roar, Which will not let my spirit be at rest. I cast me down upon the massive breast Of this huge rock, that lifts to meet the blast, Far, far above thy foam, his granite crest, And eager thoughts come gathering thick and fast, The voices of the future blending with the past!
I gaze across the yawning gorge and seem Once more to see upon yon heights that rear Their summits up to catch the sunset gleam, The red man of the wilderness appear, With bounding step, and bosom broad and bare, And painted face, and figure lithe and tall, Wild as surrounding nature; and I hear From yonder precipice his whoop and call, That mingle fiercely with the roaring water-fall!
But lo! he pauses, for he sees _thee_ now, Dread cataract!--he stands entranced--his yell Is hushed; appalled he looks where far below, Thy waters boil with a tumultuous swell. Thou glorious orator of Nature! well May his rude bosom own the majesty Of thy dread eloquence; he hears the knell Of human things--he bends the suppliant knee, To the Great Spirit of THE TERRIBLE in thee.
Once more I look!--the dusky form has gone-- Passed with the onward course of time, and passed To come no more; perhaps a king upon Yon height he sleeps, rocked by the winter's blast In couch all regal, where dead hands have cast His glorious bones the nearest to the stars, And left him there to rest in peace at last, Forgetful of his glory, scalps and scars-- The unsung Hector of a hundred bloody wars.
Again I gaze, and other forms appear, Of milder mien and far more gentle grace, And softer tones are falling on my ear; And yet, methinks, less kindred with the place. Another, and (it may be) nobler race Have made these hills their own, and they draw near With kindling spirits, yet with cautious pace; Youth, age and wisdom, with his brow of care, And joyous beauty, that has never wept a tear.