Thus we have attempted a full description of Niagara; and yet words seem but feeble to set forth the magnificence and grandeur of the scene as it rises to the view of the actual beholder. There, in its vast volume and resistless power, it ever flows on with ceaseless, patient, unwearied tide. At midnight and noonday, through summer and winter, and seed-time and harvest, it is still the same. The drought of summer does not sensibly diminish, or the freshets of spring augment its mighty current. The scorching sun does not dry it up, and the chains of winter do not bind it. Emblem of God and of eternity, it rolls on, speaking in calm sublimity of Him who made it. Nor is sublimity the only characteristic of this greatest of waterfalls. There are traits of beauty, which seem even to highten the effect of its grandeur. The rainbow, ever playing in sunshine over its awful front, and seeming indifferent to the boiling whirlpool beneath; the tide of many-colored gems, into which the spray often seems converted, as it plunges over the rocks; the heaps of foam, white as wool, dancing on the billows that rush away from the foot of the fall; and more than all, an aspect of tranquillity and of repose, which settles upon the whole scene, when viewed at a little distance, are all incidents which blend in the majestic picture imprinted on the memory by this stupendous yet lovely work of nature’s God. The falls of Niagara have been the frequent theme of poetry, but the following lines by Brainard are deemed the finest that have been produced upon the subject. “The thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, While I look upward to thee. It would seem As if God poured thee from his ‘hollow hand,’ And hung his bow upon thine awful front; And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour’s sake, ‘The sound of many waters;’ and had bade Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, And notch His centuries in the eternal rocks! “Deep calleth unto deep, and what are we, That hear the question of that voice sublime? Oh! what are all the notes that ever rung From war’s vain trumpet, by thy thundering side! Yea, what is all the riot man can make In his short life, to thine unceasing roar! And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him, Who drown’d a world, and heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains?—a light wave, That breaks and whispers of its Maker’s might!” FALLS OF THE MONTMORENCI.