The yellow Conway as it raves,

Demands my tributary song!

When, rushing forth, resistless waves

O'er rocky fragments foam along!

Like him, whose vigorous mind reviews

The troubles which around him roll;

The ceaseless warfare still pursues,

And keeps a firm, undaunted soul.

Though sternly bent by toil and care,

The brow hang darkly o'er his eye—

His features the fix'd meaning wear

Of one who knows not how to sigh.

It is not apathy that reigns,

O'erweening arrogance, or pride,

For, in his warmly-flowing veins,

The genial feelings all reside.

It is the breast-plate fortitude

Should still to injury oppose;

It is the shield with power imbu'd,

To blunt the malice of his foes.

And should the savage country round,

A more engaging aspect show,

O Conway! it will then be found,

How sweet and clear thy waters flow!

The birds will dip the taper wing—

The pilgrim there his thirst assuage,

The wandering minstrel sit and sing,

Or muse upon a distant age!

Bold River! soon within the deep,

Each weary strife and conflict o'er,

Thy venerable waves shall sleep,

And feel opposing rocks no more!