72 THE HUNTER'S VISION. Forward he leaned, and headlong down He saw the rocks, steep, stern, and brown, A frightful instant-and no more, The dream and life at once were o'er. 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 74 CATTERSKILL FALLS. "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, And keen were the winds that came to stir 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 And the crescent moon, high over the green, On that icy palace, whose towers were seen To sparkle as if with stars of their own; Is that a being of life, that moves Where the crystal battlements rise? CATTERSKILL FALLS. A maiden, watching the moon she loves, 'Tis only the torrent, tumbling o'er, In the midst of those glassy walls, 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 He heeds not the snow-wreaths, lifted and cast, His thoughts are alone of those who dwell Who pass where the crystal domes upswell late. 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, And take a ghastly likeness of men, 75 76 CATTERSKILL FALLS. As if the slain by the wintry storms Came forth to the air in their earthly forms. There pass the chasers of seal and whale, There are mothers-and oh how sadly their eyes In a seeming sleep, on the chosen breast; They eye him not as they pass along, But his hair stands up with dread, When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng, And the torrent's roar as they enter seems The glittering threshold is scarcely passed, In which there is neither form nor sound; |