THE CATTERSKILL FALLS.

’Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps

From cliffs where the wood-flower clings;

All summer he moistens his verdant steeps

With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs;

And he shakes the woods on the mountain side,

When they drip with the rains of autumn-tide.

But when in the forest bare and old

The blast of December calls,

He builds, in the starlight clear and cold,

A palace of ice where his torrent falls,

With turret and arch and fretwork fair,

And pillars blue as the summer air.

For whom are those glorious chambers wrought,

In the cold and cloudless night?

Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought

In forms so lovely and hues so bright?

Hear what the gray-haired woodmen tell

Of this wild stream, and its rocky dell:

’Twas hither a youth of dreamy mood,

A hundred winters ago,

Had wandered over the mighty wood

When the panther’s track was fresh on the snow;

And keen were the winds that came to stir

The long dark boughs of the hemlock-fir.

Too gentle of mien he seemed, and fair,

For a child of those rugged steeps;

His home lay low in the valley, where

The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps;

But he wore the hunter’s frock that day,

And a slender gun on his shoulder lay.

And here he paused, and against the trunk

Of a tall gray linden leant,

When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk

From his path in the frosty firmament,

And over the round dark edge of the hill

A cold green light was quivering still.

And the crescent moon, high over the green,

From a sky of crimson shone

On that icy palace, whose towers were seen

To sparkle as if with stars of their own;

While the water fell, with a hollow sound,

’Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around.

Is that a being of life, that moves

Where the crystal battlements rise?

A maiden, watching the moon she loves,

At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes?

Was that a garment which seemed to gleam

Betwixt his eye and the falling stream?

’Tis only the torrent tumbling o’er,

In the midst of those glassy walls,

Gushing and plunging and beating the floor

Of the rocky basin in which it falls:

’Tis only the torrent—but why that start?

Why gazes the youth with a throbbing heart?

He thinks no more of his home afar,

Where his sire and sister wait:

He heeds no longer how star after star

Looks forth on the night, as the hour grows late.

He heeds not the snow-wreaths lifted and cast

From a thousand boughs by the rising blast.

His thoughts are alone of those who dwell

In the halls of frost and snow,

Who pass where the crystal domes upswell

From the alabaster floors below,

Where the frost-trees shoot with leaf and spray,

And frost-gems scatter a silvery day.

“And, oh, that those glorious haunts were mine!”

He speaks, and throughout the glen

Thin shadows swim in the faint moonshine,

And take a ghastly likeness of men,

As if the slain by the wintry storms

Came forth to the air in their earthly forms.

There pass the chasers of seal and whale

With their weapons quaint and grim,

And bands of warriors in glittering mail,

And herdsmen and hunters huge of limb:

There are naked arms, with bow and spear,

And furry gauntlets the carbine rear.

There are mothers—and, oh, how sadly their eyes

On their children’s white brows rest!

There are youthful lovers: the maiden lies

In a seeming sleep on the chosen breast;

There are fair wan women with moon-struck air,

The snow-stars flecking their long loose hair.

They eye him not as they pass along,

But his hair stands up with dread,

When he feels that he moves with that phantom throng,

Till those icy turrets are over his head;

And the torrent’s roar, as they enter, seems

Like a drowsy murmur heard in dreams.

The glittering threshold is scarcely passed,

When there gathers and wraps him round

A thick white twilight, sullen and vast,

In which there is neither form nor sound;

The phantoms, the glory, vanish all,

With the dying voice of the waterfall.

Slow passes the darkness of that trance,—

And the youth now faintly sees

Huge shadows and gushes of light that dance

On a rugged ceiling of unhewn trees,

And walls where the skins of beasts are hung,

And rifles glitter on antlers strung.

On a couch of shaggy skins he lies;

As he strives to raise his head,

Hard-featured woodmen, with kindly eyes

Come round him and smooth his furry bed,

And bid him rest, for the evening star

Is scarcely set, and the day is far.

They had found at eve the dreaming one

By the base of that icy steep,

When over his stiffening limbs begun

The deadly slumber of frost to creep;

And they cherished the pale and breathless form,

Till the stagnant blood ran free and warm.

William Cullen Bryant.