18 THE AMERICAN RIVER. 



No other sound strikes on the ear, 

 Save when, beside its waters clear, 

 Crashing o'er branches dry and sear ; 

 Comes bounding forth the antlered deer ; 

 Or when, perchance, the woods give back 

 The arrow whizzing on its track, 

 Or deadlier rifle's vengeful crack. 

 No hum of city life is near, 

 And still uncurb'd in its career 



The river rusheth on. 



It rusheth on, — no firebark leaves 



Its dark and smoking trail 

 O'er the pure wave, which only heaves 



The batteau light and frail ; 

 Long, long ago the rude canoe 

 Across its sparkling waters flew. 

 Long, long ago the Indian Brave 

 In the clear stream his brow might lave ; 

 But seldom has the white-man stood 

 Within this trackless solitude. 

 Yet onward, onward dashing still, 

 With all the force of untamed will, 



The river rusheth on. 



It rusheth on, — no changes mark 

 How many years have sped 



Since to its banks, through forests dark, 

 Some chance the hunter led ; 



Though many a season has pass'd o'er 



The giant trees that gird its shore, 



