TRENTON FALLS.

BEAUTIFUL Waters! sparkling, free,
Spanning the globe with your ministry,-
In the tireless might of an angel's wing,
Sent from the courts above,

Tidings of mercy and peace to bring
To man, the child of love.

Onward ye press, in your mission proud,
And still with spirit free

Receive the wealth of the weeping cloud,
And bury it in the sea.

The little fountain in the wild,
The play-place of the laughing child,
Who dreams, as he mocks its bubbling force,
With his tiny feet to bar its course,

Strikes a line of silver out,

And the wild flowers follow it all about,

While the winged seeds that the breezes bear,

Make their cell on its margin fair.

Perchance it singeth a tuneful song,
A song to the pebbles rude,

Or tells them a tale, as it glideth along,
Of joy and gratitude :

A tale that softeneth hearts of stone,
But theirs are hard, and it hurrieth on,

For it may not stay, it may not stay
On its master's errand, night or day.

It claspeth the hand of its brother streams,
And runneth a merrier race,

As down the far cliff, where the eagle screams,
They gladly leap; or through meadows sheen,
Tracked by their fringe of a brighter green
Rush on to its embrace.

Anon, it spreadeth a broader tide,

And over its breast the fisher's boat And the snowy sail doth lightly float, Till in the fullness of beauty's pride, And veiled in mist, like a graceful bride, It plighteth its faith at the ocean's brim And the marriage-song is his thunder-hymn.

But thou, along whose banks we stray,
'Twas not for thee to choose,
'Mid quiet flowers and reeds thy way,
Nor with the whispering willows play,
That idly droop and muse.

A rugged path 'twas thine to tread,
Disputing with the rocks thy bed,

And inch by inch, with deafening din,

Thy troubled course to steer,

Still through adversity severe

Thy fame to win.

No cloud upon the summer air

The forest boughs are green and fair,

And joyous beings tread

The slippery margin of thy tide,

That on, from plunge to plunge, doth glide
So beautiful and dread.

Hark! to a cry of wild despair,

Echoing from yon guarded dell,

While the imprisoned flood doth to fierce madness swell.

Where is that lovely one,
Of fawn-like step and cherub air,
And blooming brow, unmarked by care?
Troubled torrent, tell me where !
She marked thee with admiring eye,
Thy verdant marge, thy craggy steep,
Thy boiling eddies, bold and deep,
Thy white mist, curtaining to the sky;
Where is she now? with sorrow wild,

I hear the parents' voice lamenting for their child.

Thou terrible in beauty! hold thy way, Foaming and full of wrath. Thy deeds shall be Graved on yon altar-piece of frowning rock, That every worshipper, who bows to thee,

May read the record, and indignant mock Thy syren charms. And henceforth, she, who guides Some darling child along thy treacherous tides, Marking the trophy thou hast torn

From fond affection's heart, shall turn away and

mourn.

Would that it were not so,-
That no dark shade of woe

Marred thine exceeding beauty. Then the breast That heaves with rapture at this glorious scene, Might hoard thine image, stainless and serene, Wrapped in the light sublime

That at creation's prime
Fair Eden blest,

Ere at its gate the sword of flame

Told with a warning voice the lapse of grief and shame.

Trenton Falls, upon the West Canada Creek, are at the distance of a pleasant drive from the city of Utica. None who are thus near, should, unless impelled by necessity, depart without paying them a visit.

The river, in its descent to a rocky ravine, makes three successive leaps, or efforts to effect a passage. These, together, comprise more than a hundred feet, though neither of the separate cataracts are of any remarkable height. The stream sweeps on sinuously between each of these plunges, but gains no interval of rest, being broken upon pointed rocks that contest its course. These are of dark limestone, and rise in cliffs, from one hundred to one hundred and thirty feet, crested with evergreens of fir, spruce, and hemlock, like the waving plumes in the helmet of some ancient chieftain on the battle-day.

Our visit to Trenton Falls was immediately after a heavy rain, when, every crevice in the rocky path being filled to overflowing, we seemed to tread amid bowls of water. The intense heat of a July sun beat upon our heads, and radiated from the surrounding precipices; but the cool breath of the stream, and the foliage from every narrow cleft around and above us, striking out in

wreaths and festoons, gave continual refreshment, while the surpassing beauty of that sequestered dell dispelled every sensation of discomfort.

Still it seemed more fatiguing to explore Trenton than Niagara. The paths are slippery and precipitous, and it cannot be forgotten how repeatedly they have led to the tomb. The allusion, in the foregoing poem, is to a beautiful child of Colonel Thorne, so long a resident in Paris, who, in visiting this scene with her parents and family, slipped from the hand of the servant who led her, and was lost in the foaming depths.

Others also have perished here, of whom it might be said, in the sweet strains of our lamented melodist, Willis Gaylord Clarke,

"It was but yesterday that all before thee

Shone in the freshness of life's morning hours,—
Joy's radiant smile was playing brightly o'er thee,
And thy light feet impressed by vernal flowers.

How have the garlands of thy beauty withered!
And hope's false anthem died upon the air!
Death's sudden tempests o'er thy way have gathered,
And his stern bolts have burst in fury there."

The Falls of Trenton are perhaps more indescribable than even the great Niagara, which, throwing the mind continually back on the Almighty Creator, can in some measure be delineated through the solemnity and sublimity of the emotions it creates. But Trenton exhibits a ceaseless, bewildering change of the surprising and beautiful, a sort of Protean character, a chamelion tint, which neither pen nor pencil can arrest without injustice or failure. Go, and see for yourselves.