MOHAWK.

Full many a glorious image have I caught, Sweet valley! from thy gentle scenery; Brooks blue with the June heaven; white cliff, and sky, And forest-shaded nooks; nor less, the Thought That stirs in Nature's hushed solemnity, The boundless Thought which fills the solitude And holy twilight of the pathless wood, With its perpetual and present mystery. How like a passion it pervades these deep, Dark groves of hemlock, while the sultry noon Fills the green meadows with the heats of June, And hangs its haze upon the mountain-steep! It is the breath of God, who here hath made Meet worship for Himself, amid the thickest shade.

Beneath this roof of maple boughs, whose screen Of thick, young leaves is painted in the brook, The golden summer hath a pleasant look, Caught from blue, stainless skies, and hill-tops green With field and forest. Deep within this nook Of bright, smooth waters, where the lace-like fern Is pictured with the wild-flower's crimson urn, And thickets by the winds of noontide shook: Amid the twinkling green and silver, lies His glorious image; clouds that sweep the vale, White wood-hawks breasting the sweet August gale, Inverted forests, and serenest skies Scooped out below the loose and glittering sand, With many a glimpse of town and sunny mountain land.

There is a romance mingled with this sweet, Wild forest scenery; this cool, deep glade, Whose nooks at noon are dark with thickest shade, These gulfs where boughs of beech and maple meet And mingle in the sultry mid-day heat; Dark hollow, and green bluff, all teem with wild And glorious legends. From this cliff up-piled With moss-stained rocks, where mid his green retreat In the dense thicket the brown wood-thrush sings, Far through the landscape's mild and mellowing haze I mark the battle-fields of other days, Fields trod of old by the red Mohawk kings, And misty valleys golden with the blaze Which Summer from the heaven of August flings.