Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/301

 1840-50.] WILLIAM DANA EMERSON. 285 TO THE OHIO RIVER. Flow on, majestic River ! A mightier bids thee come, And join him on his radiant way, To seek an ocean liome ; Flow on amid the vale and hill, And the wide West with beauty fill. I have seen thee in the sunlight, With the summer breeze at play. When a million sparkling jewels shone Upon thy rippled way ; How fine a picture of the strife Between the smiles and tears of life ! I have seen thee when the storm cloud Was mirrored in thy face, And the tempest started thy white waves On a merry, merry race ; And I've thought how little sorrow's wind Can stir the deeply flowing mind. I have seen thee when the morning Hath tinged with lovely bloom Thy features, waking tranquilly From night's romantic gloom ; If every life had such a morn. It were a blessing to be born ! And when the evening heavens Were on thy canvas spread. And wrapt in golden splendor, Day Lay beautiful and dead ; Thus sweet were man's expiring breath. Oh, who would fear the embrace of death ! And when old Winter paved thee For the fiery foot of youth ; And thy soft waters underneath Were gliding, clear as truth ; So oft an honest heart we trace, Beneath a sorrow-frozen face. And when thou wert a chaos Of crystals thronging on, Till melted by the breath of Spring, Thou bidst the steamers run ; Then thousands of the fair and free Were swiftly borne along on thee. But now the Sun of summer Hath left the sand-bars bright, And the steamer's thunder, and his fires No more disturb the night ; Thou seemest like those fairy streams We sometimes meet with in our dreams. How Spring has decked the forest ! That forest kneels to thee ; And the long canoe and the croaking skiff, Are stemming thy current free ; Thy placid marge is fringed with green, Save w^iere the villas intervene. Again the rush of waters Unfurls the flag of steam. And the river palace in its pomp, Divides the trembling stream ; Thy angry surges lash the shore, Then sleep as sweetly as before. Then Autumn pours her plenty, And makes thee all alive, With floating barks that show how well Thy cultured valleys thrive ; The undressing fields yield up their grain, To dress in richer robes again. Too soon thy brimming channel Has widened to the hill, As if the lap of wealthy plain With deeper wealth to fill ; Oh ! take not more than thou dost give. But let the toil-worn cotter live. Oh ! could I see thee slumber. As thou wast wont of yore. When the Indian in his birchen bark. Sped lightly from the shore ; Then fiery eyes gleamed through the Avood, And thou wast often tinged with blood.