THE West! the west! turn to the lighted west!
What crimson wonders break upon us there!
The drooping sun, slow sinking to his rest,
Paints the red hectic on the cheek of air-
Stamp of destruction-herald of decay,
Whose feverish bloom proclaims the death of day.
There's holiday above, and all the clouds,
In gala robes, the sunbeams sport among;
Festoon upon festoon entwining, crowds,
"Till all the drapery of heaven is hung-
And far away the ruddy masses break
In ridgy waves, like some illumined lake.
Gaze upward! from the zenith's giddy crown
Down to the sunny centre, fold on fold
Glows in gradation, as the eye goes down,
Of purple, crimson, scarlet, orange, gold—
Intensest gold!—Where blinding to the sight,
The molten sun swims in a sea of light!
Not in the West alone, the bloom is spread-
The envious East is burning at the sight;
Men's faces glare with the unnatural red,
And twinkling waves rejoice with living light—
Fortress, and spire, and Hudson's glancing stream,
To the broad blaze flash back an answering beam.
Frail flower of beauty! how thy hues go down!
Ev'n as I gaze they melt in air away—
The gold grows crimson, and the crimson brown,
Till tint by tint, relapses into gray!
Of Beauty's daughters such the fearful doom-
Such the brief triumph, and the lasting gloom.
EVE o'er our path is stealing fast;
Yon quivering splendours are the last
The sun will fling, to tremble o'er
The waves that kiss the opposing shore;
His latest glories fringe the height
Behind us, with their golden light.
The mountain's mirrored outline fades
Amid the fast extending shades;
Its shaggy bulk, in sterner pride,
Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide; For the great stream a bulwark meet That leaves its rock-encumbered feet.
River and Mountain! though to song
Not yet, perchance, your names belong;
Those who have loved your evening hues,
Will ask not the recording Muse,
What antique tales she can relate,
Your banks and steeps to consecrate.
Yet should the stranger ask, what lore
Of by-gone days, this winding shore,
Yon cliffs and fir-clad steeps could tell,
If vocal made by Fancy's spell,—
The varying legend might rehearse
Fit themes for high, romantic verse.
O'er yon rough heights and moss-clad sod
Oft hath the stalworth warrior trod;
Or peered, with hunter's gaze, to mark
The progress of the glancing bark.
Spoils, strangely won on distant waves,
Have lurked in yon obstructed caves.
When the great strife for Freedom rose
Here scouted oft her friends and foes,
Alternate, through the changeful war,
And beacon-fires flashed bright and far;
And here, when Freedom's strife was won,
Fell, in sad feud, her favoured son ;-
Her son, the second of the band,
The Romans of the rescued land.
Where round yon cape the banks ascend,
Long shall the pilgrim's footsteps bend;
There, mirthful hearts shall pause to sigh,
There, tears shall dim the patriot's eye.
There last he stood. Before his sight
Flowed the fair river, free and bright;
The rising Mart and Isles and Bay,
Before him in their glory lav,-—
Scenes of his love and of his fame,-
The instant ere the death-shot came.
WAKE, slumberer! Summer's golden hours
Are speeding fast away;
The sun has waked the opening flowers,
To greet the new-born day.
The deer leaps from his leafy haunt;
Fair gleams the breezy lake;
The birds their matin carols chant
All Nature cries, awake!
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