Boast not, O proud Niagara! although
Thou mayest withstand the ravages of time,
While countless millions swept away with all
Their mighty works, are lost in following years:
Yet there is a voice to speak, long and loud!
'Tis Michael's trump, whose mighty blast shall rend
Thy rocks, and bow thy lofty mountains in the dust.
Before whose awful presence thy waters
Blush in retiring modesty; and in
Respectful silence thou shalt stand, and listening,
Wonder and admire, while thunders roll
Majestic round the sky;—the lightnings play,—
The mountains sink,—the valleys rise,—till earth,
Restored to its original—receives
Its final rest, and groans and sighs no more.
Till then weep on, and let thy voice ascend,
In solemn music to the skies;—it is
A funeral dirge,—thou weepest o'er the miseries
Of a fallen world—in anguish deep.