Through the unpeopled realms of night We have reached the Echo River; And our swinging torches’ light Over its sunless waters quiver— Shooting their rays athwart the gloom Of yonder stern, colossal tomb; Emblazoning the funeral pall Of night, that drapes the high-arched hall, So dense, we almost hear it wave Over the Titan’s rocky grave— Once the dread Cyclops of the Cave. What bold Ulysses, standing by, Gazed on his dying agony, When, blind and frenzied, he laid down His scepter and imperial crown, And yielded up his struggling breath In this stern catacomb of death; And felt the icy shiver That chilled the fever’s fiery parch, When took his soul its Stygian march Adown the dark and stony arch Of gloomy Echo River? Lone as the tarn, whose sobbing flood Sighs in some demon-haunted wood, Its cheerless waters ever run Without one welcome from the sun; Without a smile from one lone star That trembles in the sky afar; But wend their solitary way, Secluded from the light of day. Kind Genii of the mystic wave, Who guard the portals of the cave, Gently along this sable tide Now let our little shallop glide; And by these weird and shadowy shores Direct the dusky boatman’s oars, Receives our wandering pilgrim band High towering, like the rocky walls Of the leviathan’s ocean halls, Rises the overshadowing cliff Above our frail but daring skiff, Which skims along this lower deep, Where angry tempests never sweep Nor polar star affords its ray To steer us on our trackless way. And as we slowly sail along, The plashing oar, the voice of song, Caught by the Naiads of the waves And echoed by the vocal caves, Enchant the pleased yet startled ear With strains that ring as loud and clear As the wild mountain music—born From the lone Alpine shepherd’s horn, In peals so loud that they affright The lammergeyer on dizzy height; And the bold eagle’s trumpet shriek, Loud-bugled from his thunder beak And echoed round from peak to peak, In hollow cadence dies away Along the mountain river, When the first stars of evening gray On the blue waters quiver. * * * * * * * * Boom! rings the flashing pistol’s shot! The sound, by myriad echoes caught, Roars down the dark aisles of the grot; Loud as the earthquake demon’s groan, Peals the terrific thunder-tone— As if the shrieking blasts of March, That wrestle with the mountain larch, Swept down the dark and stony arch Of glory’s Echo River. ’Tis gone! and now a sad farewell Unto the listening waves we tell; Sung to the ears of Spanish maid By the blue Guadalquiver! Plaintive and sweet as “Dixie”‘s air Of sadness which is not despair And ravishes the enchanted ear Of home-returning volunteer— By his dear Bluegrass maiden sung, To mandolin with silver tongue. And witching is the fond adieu The voice of beauty sings to you— O, music-murmuring river! For one, whose eyes and flowing locks Are darker than the raven’s wing Of midnight, brooding o’er yon rocks, Touches the plaintive sounding string, And pours a melancholy song That floats the vocal stream along, Sad as the convent’s vesper hymn, Chanted by nuns, at twilight dim, Or that strange harp, whose magic tone So wildly sweet, so sad and lone, To mortal minstrel never known, On night winds wafts its hollow moan. The ravished Genii of the waves Repeat the story through the caves; And far along the tuneful flood, A never-ending multitude Of echoing Ariels take their flight Far down the dark aisles of the night. If, when our throbbing hearts are still, And pulseless lies the icy hand, Reality should then fulfill Our dreamings of a brighter land, Then may the unfettered spirit’s ear, In some supernal, sinless sphere, Hear some immortal song like this Float through the bowers of Paradise, That bloom serene forever. While wafted home to rest, we dream. By Eden’s clear, ambrosial stream, That clouds o’ershadow never. This world of melody to leave? For round our hearts a witching spell Lingers and whispers low, “Farewell!” Like the low moan of ocean shell. Or midnight chime of distant bell, The torches, dancing to and fro, Cast in long lines their golden glow Over the inky surge’s flow, Like arrows from Apollo’s bow Or Dian’s starry quiver! And like an anthem from the skies, The voice of heavenly music dies Far down the Echo River! |