Yet what to me, or when, or how thy birth, No musty tomes are here to tell of thee; None know, if cast when nature first the earth Shaped round, and clothed with grass, and flower, and tree, Or, whether since, by changes, silently, Of sand and shell, and wave, thy wonders grew; Or if, before man's little memory, Some shock stupendous rent the globe in two, And thee, a fragment, far in western oceans threw. I know but that I love thee. On my heart, Like a dear friend's, are stamped thy features now; Though there, the Roman, or the Grecian art Hath lent, to deck thy plain and mountain brow, No broken temples, fain at length to bow, Moss-grown and crumbling with the weight of time. Not these, o'er thee, their mystic splendours throw; Themes eloquent for pencil or for rhyme, As many a soul can tell that pours its thoughts sublime. But thou art sternly artless, wildly free: We worship thee for beauties all thine own. Like damsel, young and sweet, and sure to be Admired, but only for herself alone. With richer foliage ne'er was land o'ergrown. No mightier rivers run, nor mountains rise; Nor ever lakes with lovelier graces shone, Nor wealthier harvests waved in human eyes, Nor lay more liquid stars along more heavenly skies. I dream of thee, fairest of fairy streams. Sweet Hudson! Float we on thy summer breast. Who views thy enchanted windings ever deems Thy banks, of mortal shores, the loveliest! Hail to thy shelving slopes, with verdure dress'd, Bright break thy waves the varied beach upon; Soft rise thy hills, by amorous clouds caress'd; Clear flow thy waters, laughing in the sun-- Would through such peaceful scenes my life might gently run! And lo! the Catskills print the distant sky; And o'er their airy tops the faint clouds driven, So softly blending, that the cheated eye Forgets, or which is earth or which is heaven-- Sometimes, like thunder clouds, they shade the even, Till, as you nearer draw, each wooded height Puts off the azure hues by distance given; And slowly break, upon the enamour'd sight, Ravine, crag, field and wood, in colours true and bright. Mount to the cloud-kissed summit. Far below Spreads the vast Champaign like a shoreless sea. Mark yonder narrow streamlet feebly flow, Like idle brook that creeps ingloriously; Can that the lovely, lordly Hudson be, Stealing by town and mountain? Who beholds, At break of day, this scene, when, silently, Its map of field, wood, hamlet is unroll'd, While, in the east, the sun uprears his locks of gold,