WRITTEN AT WEST POINT .

I' M not romantic, but, upon my word,
There are some moments when one can't help feeling
As if his heart's chords were so strongly stirr'd
By things around him, that 'tis vain concealing;
A little music in his soul still lingers,
Whene'er its keys are touch'd by Nature's fingers.

And even here upon this settee lying
With many a sleepy traveller near me snoozing,
Thoughts warm and wild are through my bosom flying,
Like founts when first into the sunshine oozing:
For who can look on mountain, sky and river,
Like these, and then be calm and cold as ever!

Bright D IAN , who, Camilla-like, dost skim yon
Azure fields — Thou who, once earthward bending,
Didst loose thy virgin zone to young Endymion,
On dewy Latmos to his arms descending —
Thou whom the world of old on every shore,
Type of thy sex, Triformis , did adore:

Tell me — where'er thy silver bark be steering,
By bright Italian or soft Persian lands,
Or o'er those island-studded seas careering,
Whose pearl-charged waves dissolve on coral strands;
Tell if thou visitest, thou heavenly rover,
A lovelier stream than this the wide world over?

Doth Achelous or Araxes flowing
Twin-born from Pindus, but ne'er meeting brothers —
Doth Tagus o'er his golden pavement glowing,
Or cradle-freighted Ganges, the reproach of mothers,
The storied Rhine, or far-famed Guadalquivir —
Match they in beauty my own glorious river?

What though no cloister gray nor ivied column
Along these cliffs their sombre ruins rear!
What though no frowning tower nor temple solemn
Of tyrants tell and superstition here —
What though that mouldering fort's fast crumbling walls
Did ne'er enclose a baron's banner'd halls —

Its sinking arches once gave back as proud
An echo to the war-blown clarion's peal,
As gallant hearts its battlements did crowd
As ever beat beneath a vest of steel,
When herald's trump or knighthood's haughtiest day
Call'd forth chivalric host to battle fray:

For here amid these woods he once kept court
Before whose mighty soul the common crowd
Of heroes, who alone for fame have fought,
Are like the patriarch's sheaves to heaven's chosen bow'd —
H E who his country's eagle taught to soar,
And fired those stars which shine o'er every shore.

And sights and sounds at which the world have wonder'd
Within these wild ravines have had their birth;
Young F REEDOM'S cannon from these glens have thunder'd,
And sent their startling voices o'er the earth;
And not a verdant glade nor mountain hoary
But treasures up within the glorious story.

And yet not rich in high-soul'd memories only
Is every moon-kiss'd headland round me gleaming,
Each cavern'd glen and leafy valley lonely,
And silver torrent o'er the bald rock streaming;
But such soft fancies here may breathe around,
As make Vaucluse and Clarens hallow'd ground.

Where, tell me where, pale watcher of the night —
Thou that to love so oft has lent its soul,
Since the lorn Lesbian languish'd 'neath thy light,
Or fated Romeo to his Juliet stole —
Where dost thou find a fitter place on earth
To nurse young love in hearts like theirs to birth?

Oh, loiter not upon that fairy shore
To watch the lazy barks in distance glide,
When sunset brightens on their sails no more,
And stern-lights twinkle in the dusky tide;
Loiter not there, young heart, at that soft hour,
What time the Queen of Night proclaims love's power.

Even as I gaze, upon my memory's track
Bright as yon coil of light along the deep,
A scene of early youth comes dream-like back,
Where two stand gazing from the tide-wash'd steep,
A sanguine stripling, just toward manhood flushing,
A girl, scarce yet in ripen'd beauty blushing.

The hour is his! and while his hopes are soaring
Doubts he that maiden will become his bride?
Can she resist that gush of wild adoring
Fresh from a heart full-volumed as the tide?
Tremulous, but radiant, is that peerless daughter
Of loveliness, as is the star-strown water!

The moist leaves glimmer as they glimmer'd then,
Alas! how oft have they been since renew'd,
How oft the whippoorwill, from yonder glen,
Each year has whistled to her callow brood,
How oft have lovers by yon star's same gleam,
Dream'd here of bliss — and waken'd from their dream!

But now, bright Peri of the skies, descending
Thy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain crest,
And night, more nearly now each step attending,
As if to hide thy envied place of rest,
Closes at last thy very couch beside,
A matron curtaining a virgin bride.

Farewell! Though tears on every leaf are starting,
While through the shadowy boughs thy glances quiver,
As of the good, when heavenward hence departing,
Shines thy last smile upon the placid river,
So — could I fling o'er glory's tide one ray —
Would I too steal from this dark world away.