The genius of the time soon shifts the scene: No longer whirled over our kindred clods, We, with as strong an impulse, cleave the waters. Now doth our chain a while untwine its links, And some rebound from a three hours' communion To mingle with less favored fellow-men; One careless turns the leaves of some new volume; The leaves of Nature's book are too gigantic, Too vast the characters for patient study, Till sunset lures us with majestic power To cast one look of love on that bright eye, Which, for so many hours, has beamed on us. The silver lamp is lit in the blue dome, Nature begins her hymn of evening breezes, And myriad sparks, thronging to kiss the wave, Touch even the steamboat's clumsy hulk with beauty. Then, once more drawn together, cheerful talk Casts to the hours a store of gentle gifts, Which memory receives from these bright minds And careful garners them for duller days. The morning greets us not with her late smile; Now chilling damp falls heavy on our hopes, And leaden hues tarnish each sighed-for scene. Yet not on coloring, majestic Hudson, Depends the genius of thy stream, whose wand Has piled thy banks on high, and given them forms Which have for taste an impulse yet unknown. Though Beauty dwells here, she reigns not a queen, An humble handmaid now to the Sublime. The mind dilates to receive the idea of strength, And tasks its elements for congenial forms To create anew within those mighty piles, Those "bulwarks of the world," which, time-defying And thunder-mocking, lift their lofty brows. Now at the river's bend we pause a while, And sun and cloud combine their wealth to greet us. Oft shall the fair scenes of West Point return Upon the mind, in its still picture-hours, Its cloud-capped mountains with their varying hues, The soft seclusion of its wooded paths, And the alluring hopefulness of view Along the river from its crisis-point. Unlike the currents of our human lives When they approach their long-sought ocean-mother,-- This stream is noblest onward to its close, More tame and grave when near its inland founts. Now onward, onward, till the whole be known; The heart, though swollen with these new sensations, With no less vital throb beats on for more, And rather we'd shake hands with disappointment Than wait and lean on sober expectation. The Highlands now are passed, and Hyde Park flies,-- Catskill salutes us--a far fairy-land. O mountains, how do ye delude our hearts! Let but the eye look down upon a valley, We feel our limitations, and are calm; But place blue mountains in the distant view, And the soul labors with the Titan hope To ascend the shrouded tops, and scale the heavens.