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was the leafy month of June, And joyous Nature, all in tune, With wreathing buds was drest, As toward Niagara's fearful side A youthful stranger prest; His ruddy cheek was blanched with awe, And scarce he seemed his breath to draw, While bending o'er its brim, He marked its strong, unfathomed tide, And heard its thunder-hymn.

His measured week too quickly fled, Another, and another sped, And soon the summer rose decayed, The moon of autumn sank in shade, Years filled their circle, brief and fair, Yet still the enthusiast lingered there, Till winter hurled its dart, For deeper round his soul was wove A mystic chain of quenchless love, That would not let him part.