ZINZENDORFF.
Twas Summer in Wyoming.—
Through the breast
Of that fair vale, the Susquehannah roam'd,
Wearing its robe of silver, like a bride.
Now, with a noiseless current, gliding slow
'Mid the rich velvet of its curtaining banks,
It seem'd to sleep,—o'erwearied with the toil
By which its roughly-guarded 1 pass was won;—
Then hasting on, refreshing and refresh'd,
Vaunting the glories of its sylvan home,
It spread a mirror to the changeful cloud
In chrystal beauty.—
From the towering hills
That revel in the sunbeams, or retire
Shrouded in mist, the gazing traveller drinks
Such deep delight, as only Nature gives,
When in her garb of loveliness, she mocks
Pencil, and power of speech.—Yon pictur'd chart
Of lawn, and stream, and mountain's shadowy height,
And rocks in quiet verdure meekly bower'd,
Rebukes the pomp of cities, and the strife
Of competition, and the lust of gold.
—The landscape 2 hath a legend: hurrying steps
Of stately warriors,—valor, prompt and proud
To guard its nested loves,—the fatal wile
