  IT is true of the Hudson, as of all other rivers, that to be seen to advantage it should form the middle, not the foreground, of the picture. Those who go to Albany by steam have something the same idea of the scenery of West Point that an inside passenger may have of the effect of a stage-coach at top-speed. It is astonishing how much foreground goes for in landscape; and there are few passes of scenery where it is more naturally beautiful than those of the Hudson. In the accompanying drawing, the picturesque neighborhood of Undercliff, the seat of General Morris, lies between the river and the artist, and directly opposite stands the peak of Crow Nest, mentioned in the description of West Point. Crow Nest is one of the most beautiful mountains of America for shape, verdure, and position; and when the water is unruffled, and the moon sits on his summit, he looks like a monarch crowned with a single pearl. This is the scene of the first piece-work of fancy which has come from the practical brain of America,—the poem of “The Culprit Fay.” The opening is so descriptive of the spot that it is quite in place here; and to those who have not seen the poem (as most European readers have not) it will convey an idea of a production which, in my opinion, treads close on the heels of the “Midsummer Night’s Dream:”— ’Tis the middle watch of a summer’s night,— The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright; Nought is seen in the vault on high But the moon and the stars and the cloudless sky, And the flood which rolls its milky hue,— A river of light on the welkin blue. The moon looks down on old Crow Nest, She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast, And seems his huge gray form to throw In a silver cone on the wave below; His sides are broken by spots of shade By the walnut boughs and the cedar made, And through their clustering branches dark Glimmers and dies the firefly’s spark,— Like starry twinkles that momently break Through the rifts of the gathering tempest rack. The stars are on the moving stream, And fling, as its ripples gently flow, A burnish’d length of wavy beam In an eel-like, spiral line below. The winds are whist, and the owl is still, The bat in the shelvy rock is hid; And nought is heard on the lonely hill But the cricket’s chirp and the answer shrill Of the gauze-winged katy-did, And the plaints of the mourning whip-poor-will, Who mourns unseen, and ceaseless sings Ever a note of wail and wo, Till morning spreads her rosy wings, And earth and sky in her glances glow. ’Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell: The wood-tick has kept the minutes well; He has counted them all with click and stroke Deep in the heart of the mountain-oak; And he has awakened the sentry-elve Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, To bid him ring the hour of twelve, And call the fays to their revelry. ......... They come from beds of lichen green, They creep from the mullen’s velvet screen; Some on the backs of beetles fly From the silver tops of moon-touch’d trees, Where they swing in their cob-web hammocks high, And rock’d about in the evening breeze; Some from the hum-bird’s downy nest,— They had driven him out by elfin power, And pillow’d on plumes of his rainbow breast Had slumber’d there till the charmed hour; Some had lain in a scarp of the rock, With glittering rising-stars inlaid, And some had open’d the four-o’clock, And stolen within its purple shade. And now they throng the moonlight glade, Above—below—on every side, Their little minion forms arrayed In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride. The general assembly of the fairies is at last complete, and they proceed to the trial of the culprit fay, who has extinguished his elfin lamp and paralyzed his wings by a love for a mortal maid. He is condemned to penances, which are most exquisitely described, and constitute the greater part of the poem; and he finally expiates his sins, and is forgiven. There is a fineness of description, and a knowledge of the peculiarities of American nature, in birds, fishes, flowers, and the phenomena of this particular region, which constitute this little poem a book of valuable information as well as an exquisite work of fancy. Just under Crow Nest, buried in the heavy leaves of a ravine, springs a waterfall like a naiad from the depths of the forest, and plunges down into the river. The rambles in and about its neighborhood are cool and retired; and it is a favorite place for lovers from New York, who run up in the steamer in three hours, and find the honeymoon goes swimmingly off there,—the excellent hotel within half a mile supplying the real, without which the ideal is found to be very trumpery. The marble tomb of a cadet, who was killed by the bursting of a gun, forms a picturesque object, and gives a story to the spot. HORICON. In the midst of the mountains all bosky and wooded, Its bosom thick-gemmed with the loveliest isles, Its borders with vistas of Paradise studded,— Looking up to the heaven sweet Horicon smiles. Thick set are its haunts with old legend and story, That, woven by genius, still cluster and blend; But its beauty will cling, like a halo of glory, When legend and record with ages shall end. ......... Far down in the waters the pebbles are gleaming,— Far down in the clear waves that nothing can hide; So, beauty of youth, comes the name you are dreaming,— Too pure for concealment, too gentle for pride; So smiles on your faces the sunshine of heaven,— The blessing distilled in the gardens of air,— A smile of contentment from Paradise given That woman and lake have been fashioned so fair. Pure Horicon! glassing the brows of the mountains, As handmaid might bend to a conqueror’s will, Although nurtured and swelled by the commonest fountains Yet pure and transparent and beautiful still! No wonder the men of the cross and the missal Once named it “The Lake of the Sacrament” pure, Or that far leagues away, from some holiest vessel, Its drops on the forehead could comfort and cure. On the fair silver lake drives the Indian no longer, With the sweep of his paddle, the birchen canoe; And the fortresses fall that made weakness the stronger, And saved the white maid when the war-whistle blew. But ’tis well that the old and the savage are fated, And that danger rolls back from the Edens of earth; Our boats glide as well with all loveliness freighted, And the war-whoop we lose in the sallies of mirth. Pure Horicon! lake of the cloud and the shadow! Soft shimmer your moonlight and dimple your rain! And the hearts far away—if by seaside or meadow— Still think of your blue with a lingering pain! Among the far islands that glitter in heaven,— On the dim, undiscovered, and beautiful shore,— Some glimpse of a lovelier sea may be given To the eyes of the perfect,—but never before! Henry Morford. THE CATTERSKILL FALLS. |
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