Of the swift river rolling by,—
Monotonous yet beautitul
Ever the gentle pebbly swell!
And every ripple lent his plash
Joining in chorus with the dash
Of every mighty mountain stream
That joyful sung his morning hymn,
His irisߚglory round him quivering
Where his white showery falls were shivering.
There is a melancholy smile
On natureʼs features fair the while,
When the dank dews descending grey
Weep for the loss of parting day;
There is a sad and soft complaining
In the light breeze when day is waning;
The evening star is fair and full,
But it is passing sorrowful;
And merry is the laughing light
That blushes oʼer the heavenʼs height,
That stream and bird and breeze and tree
For very joy sing merrily,
When wakes the morn the mountain snows
From their cold, fixed, pale repose.
It was a most enchanting vision!
The morning mists had upward risen
And, floating in the fields of air,
Lay in long lines most calmly there.
You could not call them clouds, I wist,
They were not smoke, they were not mist;
They were a sort of visible breeze
Touching the tops of the pine‐trees
That, as we passed beneath and strook
Their stretchy branches, ever shook
The laughing showers of dancing dew
Reflecting every rainbow hue,
Or clinging to the clusters dank
Of bright green moss upon the bank.
And where those pines their crests had cloven
How rich the sun was interwoven!
And smiling through the leafy shade
Among the spangled grass it played,
And drank the dew from flower and blade,
Melting the heavy drops to air
That so dragged down the gossamer.