The Merrimac

The Indians speak of a beautiful river, far to the south, which they call Merrimac. - SIEUR. DE MONTS, 1604.     Stream of my fathers! sweetly still     The sunset rays thy valley fill;     Poured slantwise down the long defile,     Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile.     I see the winding Powow fold     The green hill in its belt of gold,     And following down its wavy line,     Its sparkling waters blend with thine.     There s not a tree upon thy side,     Nor rock, which thy returning tide     As yet hath left abrupt and stark     Above thy evening water-mark;     No calm cove with its rocky hem,     No isle whose emerald swells begin     Thy broad, smooth current; not a sail     Bowed to the freshening ocean gale;     No small boat with its busy oars,     Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores;     Nor farm-house with its maple shade,     Or rigid poplar colonnade,     But lies distinct and full in sight,     Beneath this gush of sunset light.     Centuries ago, that harbor-bar,     Stretching its length of foam afar,     And Salisburys beach of shining sand,     And yonder islands wave-smoothed strand,     Saw the adventurers tiny sail,     Flit, stooping from the eastern gale;     And oer these woods and waters broke     The cheer from Britains hearts of oak,     As brightly on the voyagers eye,     Weary of forest, sea, and sky,     Breaking the dull continuous wood,     The Merrimac rolled down his flood;     Mingling that clear pellucid brook,     Which channels vast Agioochook     When spring-times sun and shower unlock     The frozen fountains of the rock,     And more abundant waters given     From that pure lake, The Smile of Heaven,     Tributes from vale and mountain-side,     With oceans dark, eternal tide!     On yonder rocky cape, which braves     The stormy challenge of the waves,     Midst tangled vine and dwarfish wood,     The hardy Anglo-Saxon stood,     Planting upon the topmost crag     The staff of Englands battle-flag;     And, while from out its heavy fold     Saint Georges crimson cross unrolled,     Midst roll of drum and trumpet blare,     And weapons brandishing in air,     He gave to that lone promontory     The sweetest name in all his story;     Of her, the flower of Islams daughters,     Whose harems look on Stambouls waters,     Who, when the chance of war had bound     The Moslem chain his limbs around,     Wreathed oer with silk that iron chain,     Soothed with her smiles his hours of pain,     And fondly to her youthful slave     A dearer gift than freedom gave.     But look! the yellow light no more     Streams down on wave and verdant shore;     And clearly on the calm air swells     The twilight voice of distant bells.     From Oceans bosom, white and thin,     The mists come slowly rolling in;     Hills, woods, the rivers rocky rim,     Amidst the sea like vapor swim,     While yonder lonely coast-light, set     Within its wave-washed minaret,     Half quenched, a beamless star and pale,     Shines dimly through its cloudy veil!     Home of my fathers! I have stood     Where Hudson rolled his lordly flood     Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade     Along his frowning Palisade;     Looked down the Appalachian peak     On Juniatas silver streak;     Have seen along his valley gleam     The Mohawks softly winding stream;     The level light of sunset shine     Through broad Potomacs hem of pine;     And autumns rainbow-tinted banner     Hang lightly oer the Susquehanna;     Yet wheresoeer his step might be,     Thy wandering child looked back to thee!     Heard in his dreams thy rivers sound     Of murmuring on its pebbly bound,     The unforgotten swell and roar     Of waves on thy familiar shore;     And saw, amidst the curtained gloom     And quiet of his lonely room,     Thy sunset scenes before him pass;     As, in Agrippas magic glass,     The loved and lost arose to view,     Remembered groves in greenness grew,     Bathed still in childhoods morning dew,     Along whose bowers of beauty swept     Whatever Memorys mourners wept,     Sweet faces, which the charnel kept,     Young, gentle eyes, which long had slept;     And while the gazer leaned to trace,     More near, some dear familiar face,     He wept to find the vision flown,     A phantom and a dream alone!