  IN the stately Indian Pass, From my fount of shadowy glass, I struggle along in hollow song on my blind and caverned way. Sharp, splintered crags ascend, Wild firs above me bend, And I leap and dash with many a flash to find the welcome day. The lean wolf laps my flow; In my pointed pools below, The grand gray eagle’s tawny eye like lightning fires the gloom. Not oft is the warbling bird In my jagged cradle heard, For I am the child of the savage and wild, not pet of the sun and bloom. I smite, in headlong shocks, Roots clutching the ragged rocks, And the blocks of my sable basins and the chasms my fury ploughs, Where the raven, as o’er he flies, Sees the frown of his deepest dyes, As the murkiest pall of the forest is flung from the dungeon-boughs. Old Whiteface cleaves apart In dizziest heights his heart For the roll of my rocky waters, and I lighten and thunder through. And sometimes I tame my will To sing like the wren-like rill, And I mirror the flower and bending bower and laugh in the open blue. But sometimes the cataract-rain Fills my breast with frantic disdain, And my boiling deep shoots torrent-like, lashing and crashing past;— Whole forests I tear in my wrath; Whole hamlets I strew on my’ path, Till my wild waves break upon the lake, and I slumber in peace at last. |
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