Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/276

 260 JAMES W. WARD. [1830-40. Now, when the grasshoppers lie still And torpid on the ground, Spiders desert their looms, and flies In sheltered holes are found ; When the beetle hides beneath the bark, With hushed and folded wing ; And honey-fattened chrysalids In silken hammocks swing ; And all the noisy insect race, s, A rich, inviting spoil. Are into winter quarters gone. Weary of summer's toil ; — Now, to our gardens and our woods, With voices gay and sweet, Come back the singing birds, dispersed By summer's sultry heat ; ^ The social robin, and the wren Piping his ti-iple lay ; The red-bird and the sparrow. And the acorn-hunting jay. In troops they come, with chattering call And dainty melody. Winning our ears their songs to hear. Our eyes their plumes to see. Not one is missing ; night and mom They gambol in and out The breezy woods, and pipe and chirp, ' A gay, delirious rout. j^ Ho, for the Autumn !~for the days Of vigorous delights ; For scudding clouds, and flying gales, And clear and sparkling nights. Who mourns the Summer? Rather, who With rapture welcomes not The bracing breeze, the quickened heart, And drowsy days forgot ? NIAGARA. Rapt in amazement, awe and, wonder fill- ing me. Stood I alone, in silence, gazing thoughtfully. Gazing, delighted, down the brink bewil- dermg. Whence, with a proud consent, thy waters tranquilly. Placidly, take their fearful leap, Niagara. Solemnly, slowly, calm in conscious majesty Bubble and spray, and twinkling drop, all vanishing. There, in a long, unbroken front, as steadily, Firm and united, sweeps a line of infantry, Leapeth thy smooth and liquid mass, col- lectedly. So have I seen — ah, river wild and beau- tiful, Not only thus resemblest thou our gifted ones — So have I seen descend, serene and confi- dent. Genius no more, nor sparkling wit, adorn- ing it, Down to the tomb, the poet's soul, sub- missively. In the fierce rapids, where the sharp rocks, secretly. Under the flowing current, lie in wait for thee. Cutting and lashing thy torn bosom wan- tonly, There art thou like, River, sad simili- tude. Like the same soul with life-toil stmggling nianfully. Hither and thither whirled, in eddies in- finite. Winding and turning, still progressing end- lessly. Thus art thou dashed and driven ; and thus as turbulent,