THE FRESHET.

A LEGEND OF THE DELAWARE.

———

BY ALFRED B. STREET.

———

March hath unlocked stern Winter’s chain,

Nature is wrapp’d in misty shrouds,

And ceaselessly the drenching rain

Drips from the gray sky-mantling clouds;

The deep snows melt, and swelling rills

Pour through each hollow of the hills;

The river from its rest hath risen,

And bounded from its shattered prison;

The huge ice-fragments onward dash

With grinding roar and splintering crash;

Swift leap the floods upon their way,

Like war-steeds thundering on their path,

With hoofs of waves and manes of spray

Restrainless in their mighty wrath.

Wild mountains stretch in towering pride

Along the river’s either side;

Leaving between it and their walls

Narrow and level intervals.

When Summer glows, how sweet and bright

The landscape smiles upon the sight!

Here, the deep golden wheat-fields vie

With the rich carpets of the rye,

The buckwheat’s snowy mantles, there,

Shed honied fragrance on the air;

In long straight ranks, the maize uprears

Its silken plumes and pennon’d spears,

The yellow melon, underneath,

Plump, ripening, in its viny wreath:

Here, the thick rows of new-mown grass,

There, the potato-plant’s green mass;

All framed by woods—each limit shown

By zigzag rail, or wall of stone;

Contrasting here, within the shade,

The axe a space hath open laid

Cumber’d with trees hurl’d blended down,

Their verdure chang’d to wither’d brown;

There, the soil ashes-strew’d, and black,

Shows the red flame’s devouring track;

The fire-weed shooting thick where stood

The leafy monarchs of the wood:

A scene peculiar to one land

Which Freedom with her magic wand

Hath touch’d, to clothe with bloom, and bless

With peace, and joy, and plenteousness.

The rains have ceas’d—the struggling glare

Of sunset lights the misty air,

The fierce wind sweeps the myriad throng

Of broken ragged clouds along,

From the rough saw-mill, where hath rung

Through all the hours, its grating tongue,

The raftsman sallies, as the gray

Of evening tells the flight of day:

And slowly seeks with loitering stride,

His cabin by the river-side.

As twilight darkens into night,

Still dash the waters in their flight,

Still the ice-fragments, thick and fast,

Shoot like the clouds before the blast.

Beyond—the sinuous channel wends

Through a deep narrow gorge, and bends

With curve so sharp, the drilling ice,

Hurl’d by the flood’s tremendous might,

Piles the opposing precipice,

And every fragment swells the height;

Hour after hour uprears the wall,

Until a barrier huge and tall

Breasts the wild waves that vain upswell

To overwhelm the obstacle:

They bathe the alder on the verge,

The leaning hemlock now they merge,

The stately elm is dwindling low

Within the deep engulfing flow,

Till curb’d thus in its headlong flight,

With its accumulated might,

The river turning on its track,

Rolls its wide-spreading volumes back.

Slumbers the raftsman—through his dream

Distorted visions wildly stream,

Now in the wood his axe he swings,

And now his sawmill’s jarring rings;

Now his huge raft is shooting swift

Cochecton’s white tumultuous rift,

Now floats it on the ebon lap

Of the grim shadow’d Water Gap,

And now it’s tossing on the swells

Fierce dashing down the slope of Wells,

The rapids crash upon his ear,

The deep sounds roll more loud and near,

They fill his dream—he starts—he wakes!

The moonlight through the casement falls,

Ha! the wild sight that on him breaks,

The floods sweep round his cabin-walls,

Beneath their bounding thundering shocks,

The frail log fabric groans and rocks;

Crash, crash! the ice-bolts round it shiver,

The walls like blast-swept branches quiver,

His wife is clinging to his breast,

The child within his arms is prest,

He staggers through the chilly flood

That numbs his limbs, and checks his blood,

On, on, he strives—the waters lave

Higher his form with every wave,

They steep his breast, on each side dash

The splinter’d ice with thundering crash

A fragment strikes him—ha! he reels,

That shock in every nerve he feels,

Faster, bold raftsman, speed thy way,

The waves roar round thee for their prey,

Thy cabin totters—sinks—the flood

Rolls its mad surges where it stood:

Before thy straining sight, the hill

Sleeps in the moonlight, bright and still,

Falter not, falter not, struggle on,

That goal of safety may be won,

Heavily droops thy wife with fear,

Thy boy’s shrill shriekings fill thine ear;

Urge, urge thy strength to where out-fling

Yon cedar branches for thy cling.

Joy, raftsman joy! thy need is past,

The wish’d for goal is won at last,

Joy, raftsman joy! thy quick foot now

Is resting on the hill’s steep brow:

Praise to high heaven, each knee is bending,

Each heart’s warm incense is ascending,

Praise to high heaven, each humble prayer

Oh, finds it not acceptance there?