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 And thanked them for his card in an oration, Declared to be the shortest ever spoken. And he had strolled one day o'er Weehawk hill: A day worth all the rest—he recollects it still.

Weehawken!—In thy mountain scenery yet, All we adore of Nature, in her wild And frolic hour of infancy, is met; And never has a summer's morning smiled Upon a lovelier scene, than the full eye Of the enthusiast revels on—when high

Amid thy forest solitudes, he climbs O'er crags, that proudly tower above the deep, And knows that sense of danger which sublimes The breathless moment—when his daring step Is on the verge of the cliff, and he can hear The low dash of the wave with startled ear—

Like the death-music of his coming doom, And clings to the green turf with desperate force, As the heart clings to life; and when resume The currents in his veins their wonted course, There lingers a deep feeling—like the moan Of wearied ocean, when the storm is gone.