  Where thick o’er the panther ledges Its crescents the fir-tree curls, And the rough yellow pine hangs frowning, The river its cataract hurls. Threading in darkness the forest It bursts into light at the spring, And it shouts to the hovering eagle, “Ho, ho! I am free as thy wing! Shriek, blend thy brave tones to my shouting As down my bright garlands I fling!” Faint with his thirst, the hunter No spruce-drop nor moss-drip can see;— Hark! rolls on his ear a low rumble, “Haste! here foams a goblet for thee!” On, on, through the thickets he plunges;— Now he catches a flashing of white; Now he hears the bold shout of the torrent;— “Ho, ho! steep thy lip in delight! Thou, scorning the moose in his fury, Again feel the glow of thy might!” Rich pluming the bright black basin The vetch with the vervain blends; And in the light breeze of the dashing The crumpled blue iris bends. Sky-pictures of silver and sapphire Are traced on the mirror clear;— Sing the ripples the white plunge awakens “Ho, ho! for the wolf-hunted deer! Dash, dart of the wilds, in my waters! Then urge in new strength thy career!” |
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