Does that same Pow'r, whose voice in thunder roars,
Whose breath, the whirlwind, might, the waters pours,
Still watch amid this hour of wild alarm,

And shield the trembling wanderers from harm?
Yes! there they sat like lambs within their fold,
While all around the swelling waters roll'd,
Making an island of the little

space

Where they had found their pleasant resting place:
Close to their pent up feet the torrent past,
And every moment seem'd as 'twere the last;
For still the rain in gathering fury pour'd,
And still the river rose, and louder roar'd.

The trembling wife and boys sat moveless by,
Watching, in breathless stillness, BASIL's eye,
Perchance to see if from its orb there broke
A ray that bright deliverance bespoke,
For still in Danger's most besetting hour,
There is a lofty and resistless power
Thron'd in the steady visage and calm eye
That knows what danger is, yet dares to die.
'Tis here when Hope with long exertions tires,
The fainting spirit lights its waning fires,

'Tis here that Weakness, when the blood is froze,
Turns her dim eyes, when these she dare unclose,
And infant instinct aye to reason true,
Looks, and still feels its confidence renew.
As raving madness, when the fit is o'er,
Sinks fainting down, still weaker than before,

Sudden tir'd Nature sunk in calm repose;
The storm subsided rapid as it rose;

The dark clouds sail'd behind the mountain's head,
The river shrunk within its wonted bed;

The laughing sunbeams on its surface play,

And blithe as birds our pilgrims wend their way;
For as upon the wrecks their eyes they cast,
Their hearts grew lighter for the danger past.

And

the
gave weary

Few days now brought them to their journey's close,
wand'rers short repose,
Ohio's gentle stream before them lay,
In tranquil silence gliding on its way;
And parting, with its current as it ran,

The prowling savage from the christian man.

Here lay dark Pittsburgh, from whose site there broke The manufacturer's black and sparkling smoke, Where Industry and useful Science reign'd, And man, by labour, all his wants sustain'd; There, 'mid the howling forest dark and drear, Rov'd the wild Indian, wilder than the deer, King of the woods-who other blessings priz'd, And arts and industry alike despis'd: Hunting the trade, and war the sport he lov'd, Free as the winds, the dauntless chieftain rov'd, Taunting with bitter ire, the pale-fac'd slave, Who toils for gold from cradle to the grave. Extremes of habits, manners, time and space, Brought close together, here stood face to face,

And

gave at once a contrast to the view

That other lands and ages never knew ;

Pass but the river, and that world, where meet
Of bland society each courteous sweet,

Is left behind for manners wild and rude,
And scenes of death, or deathlike solitude.
Sweet river of the West! a purer wave,
A fairer region never yet did lave!

Tranquil, and smooth, and clear, its current roves
Through flowery meadows, and long sylvan groves;
Winding in silence on its destin'd way,

Idly it lingers with a sweet delay,

And often turns, as if its course to find,
Back to the smiling scenes it left behind.
Sweet river of the West! though yet unsung
By native bard, thy native vales among—
Though yet no strains of native music pour,
To wake the sleeping echoes of thy shore,

Ere long some minstrel from thy banks shall spring,
And track thy wand'rings with a loftier wing,
In worthier strains thy various charms rehearse,
And in oblivion drown my weaker verse.

*

Now, fare thee well-dear haunts of social men! Long may it be, ere we shall meet again! Farewell the village church, and tolling bell Sounding to prayers, or rustic fun'ral knell;

The lively fields, where men and herds are seen
Sporting, and lab'ring morn and eve between ;
The smoke of rural hamlet curling high
Above the trees, in peaceful Summer sky;
The ploughman's whistle, and the lambkin's bleat,
The tinkling music of the herd, so sweet—
All, all farewell! far other scenes of life,
Rude forest labours, and wild savage strife,
My vent❜rous song, perchance, will soon rehearse,
And rougher scenes demand a loftier verse.
Come then, our native Muse-bred in the wild,
Drear Solitude and lonely Fancy's child!
If ever thou didst shiver and turn pale,
Yet love to listen to some bloody tale,
That thrill'd with wild and terrible alarm,
Yet held thee breathless in its magic charm ;-
If ever thou didst pause in moss-grown glen,
Unprinted yet by track of wandering men,
To listen to the wolf's long quavering howl,
Or shrill sharp shriek of twilight prowling owl,
Whose music turns the startled ploughman pale,
As lone, like thee, he lingers in the dale,

Musing on rustic damsel, passing fair,
Whose

eye

-

half promis'd she would meet him there ;If ever in some cloud-bespeckled night,

When the moon glanc'd a wayward flickering light, And shadows ever changing in the breeze,

Seem shapeless monsters gliding through the trees,

Thou wert beguil'd through church-yard path to roam,
That led, perchance, a nearer way to home,
And fancy'd that there met thy watchful ear,
A sound, so low, so sad, so chill, and drear,
As if some long clos'd, clammy, fleshless grave
Had op'd its stubborn jaws, and groaning gave
Its mouldering bones awhile to roam at will
Through midnight shades all damp and deadly still,
Until Aurora, and her sprightly train,

Should chase them to their narrow cell again ;-
If such thy haunts and themes, I woo thee now,
Come hover o'er thy lowly suppliant's brow,
And with thy gloomy soul my verse inspire,
While vent'rously I wake the untouch'd lyre.
As down Ohio's ever ebbing tide,

Oarless and sailless silently they glide,

How still the scene, how lifeless, yet how fair,
Was the lone land that met the strangers there!
No smiling villages, or curling smoke,

The busy haunts of busy men bespoke;

No solitary hut, the banks along,

Sent forth blithe Labour's homely rustic song,
No urchin gambol'd on the smooth white sand,
Or hurl❜d the skipping-stone with playful hand,
While playmate dog plung'd in the clear blue wave,
And swam, in vain, the sinking prize to save.
Where now are seen along the river side,
Young busy towns, in buxom painted pride,