




” ‘s 
The Halls of the Dussate, 
Washington Trving. 
N a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green, 
Where Nature had fashioned a soft, sylvan scene, 
The retreat of the ringdove, the haunt of the deer, 
Passaic in silence rolled gentle and clear. 
No grandeur of prospect astonished the sight, 
No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight ; 
Here the wild flow’ret blossomed, the elm proudly waved, 
And pure was the current the green bank that laved. 
But the Spirit that ruled o’er the thick-tangled wood, 
And deep in its gloom fixed his murky abode, 
Who loved the wild scene that the whirlwinds deform, 
And gloried in thunder, and lightning, and storm ; 
All flushed from the tumult of battle he came, 
Where the red men encountered the children of flame, 
While the noise of the war-whoop still rang in his ears, 
And the fresh bleeding scalp as a trophy he bears: 


W. 
W. 
So 
He 
He 
He 
An 
