THE RIVER.
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The sacred azure darkens in our bosom, The landscapes toward us sway.
Deeper the channel wears, and ever broader From the exhaustless wellsThe rhythmic tides, in their mysterious order, Slide on slow silvery swells.
A gracious stream, whose banks are set with blessing, That under tranquil skiesAnd into calms of golden sunset pressing On the horizon dies,—
Or drawn to seek the gray and wondrous fountains, Far sounding, shall it be,A river rushing between mighty mountains We burst upon the sea?
The hoary and illimitable ocean, That darkly to and froRocks the vast volumes of its central motion Where no wind dares to blow!
