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But here — ah, here in this sequestered ground, 



This charming valley of the Ahquahung, 

 What quiet grace and beauty here abound! 



What balm for weary eyes — for nerves unstrung. 



Look yonder! see that gentle, placid stream, 

 Reflecting, mirror-like, its wooded banks : 



Of such scenes poets sing and artists dream — 

 Each reverently the great Creator thanks. 



And see it now, as o'er the dam it glides 



And dancing, leaping — seems to laugh with glee; 



Then down the gorge it whirls ' twixt rocky sides ; 

 Sparkling with life and speeds on toward the sea. 



Across the river see that hemlock grove, 



That fairyland of sylvan loveliness, 

 Where wood nymphs with pine needles deftly wove 



Their lacy gauze the zephyrs to caress. 



Yon moss-grown rock, bedecked in velvet green, 

 Into whose clefts the gnarled and twisted root 



With confidence seeks strength from depths unseen — 

 What rustic pranks from its recesses shoot! 



Bewitching Bronx! fair Queen of Parks! thy charms 

 Enrapture me, and cause my cares to cease; 



Thy magic spell my troubled spirit calms 



And here, ah here, my weary soul finds peace. 



All honor then to those whose wisdom spared 



These hills and vales, these knolls and quaint ravines; 



For generations yet 'unborn prepared 

 A respite from the City's ugly scenes. 



No words of ours can fitly sound their praise; 



We humbly pay, in bronze, this slight tribute — 

 Mute witness may it be for length of days 



To all who of their labors reap the fruit. 



