Fragment.

I.     Tuscara! thou art lovely now,     Thy woods, that frown'd in sullen strength     Like plumage on a giant's brow,     Have bowed their massy pride at length.     The rustling maize is green around,     The sheep is in the Congar's bed;     And clear the ploughman's whistlings sound     Where war-whoop's pealed o'er mangled dead.     Fair cots around thy breast are set,     Like pearls upon a coronet;     And in Aluga's vale below     The gilded grain is moving slow     Like yellow moonlight on the sea,     Where waves are swelling peacefully;     As beauty's breast, when quiet dreams     Come tranquilly and gently by;     When all she loves and hopes for seems     To float in smiles before her eye. II.     And hast thou lost the grandeur rude     That made me breathless, when at first     Upon my infant sight you burst,     The monarch of the solitude?     No; there is yet thy turret rock,     The watch-tower of the skies, the lair     Of Indian Gods, who, in the shock     Of bursting thunders, slumbered there;     And trim thy bosom is arrayed     In labour's green and glittering vest,     And yet thy forest locks of shade     Shake stormy on that turret crest.     Still hast thou left the rocks, the floods,     And nature is the loveliest then,     When first amid her caves and woods     She feels the busy tread of men;     When every tree, and bush, and flower,     Springs wildly in its native grace;     Ere art exerts her boasted power,     That brightened only to deface. III.     Yes! thou art lovelier now than ever;     How sweet 'twould be, when all the air     In moonlight swims, along thy river     To couch upon the grass, and hear     Niagara's everlasting voice,     Far in the deep blue west away;     That dreaming and poetic noise     We mark not in the glare of day,     Oh! how unlike its torrent-cry,     When o'er the brink the tide is driven,     As if the vast and sheeted sky     In thunder fell from heaven. IV.     Were I but there, the daylight fled,     With that smooth air, the stream, the sky,     And lying on that minstrel bed     Of nature's own embroidery     With those long tearful willows o'er me,     That weeping fount, that solemn light,     With scenes of sighing tales before me,     And one green, maiden grave in sight;     How mournfully the strain would rise     Of that true maid, whose fate can yet     Draw rainy tears from stubborn eyes;     From lids that ne'er before were wet.     She lies not here, but that green grave     Is sacred from the plough--and flowers,     Snow-drops, and valley-lilies, wave     Amid the grass; and other showers     Than those of heaven have fallen there.