Music — Poetry — Fiction 



To which the voyager returns no more, 1834 



Attest the fury of his vengeful mood. Sigoumey 



But thou, Niagara, know'st no passion-gust; 



Thy mighty bosom, from the sheeted rain, 



Spreads not itself to sudden boastfulness, 



Like the wild torrent in its shallow bed. 



Thou art not angry, and thou changest not. 



Man finds in thee no emblem of himself; 

 The cloud depresseth him, the adverse blast 

 Rouseth the billows of his discontent, 

 The wealth of summer-showers inflates his pride. 

 And with the simple faith and love of Him 

 Who made him from the dust, he mingleth much 

 Of his own vain device. Perchance, even here, 

 'Neath all the sternness of thy strong rebuke. 

 Light fancies fill him, and he gathereth straws 

 Or plaiteth rushes, or illusive twines 

 Garlands of hope, more fragile still than they. 



But in one awful voice, that ne'er has known 

 Change or inflection since the morn of time, 

 Thou utterest forth that One Eternal Name, 

 Which he who graves not on his inmost soul 

 Will find his proudest gatherings, as the dross 

 That cannot profit. 



Thou hast ne'er forgot 

 Thy lesson, or been weary, day or night, 

 Nor with its simple, elemental thought 

 Mixed aught of discord. 



Teacher, sent from God, 

 We bow us to thy message, and are still. 

 Oh! full of glory, and of majesty, 

 With all thy terrible apparel on, 

 High-priest of Nature, who within the veil 

 Mysterious, unapproachable dost dwell, 

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