67 Washington Irving.
It looked any thing but dark or gloomy on that beautiful summer afternoon when we visited it.
A little farther on where the stream glides " beneath the balancing sprays of beech and chestnut trees," and tumbles over the rocks, we found an artist sketching—possibly the one whose studio we had
discovered in the old mill loft. Stephen Henry Thayer has written a charming tribute to this beautiful stream, which, by kind permission
of the author we here reproduce :
Wild waters of Pocantico !
Stray rivulet of wood and glen !
Thy murmuring laughters, soft and low,
Elude the alien ears of men.
O'er broader bosoms than thine own
The fleeting wings of commerce glide;
Hid in thy sylvan haunts alone
The nymphs of fairy-land abide.
The azure blue of summer's sky
Scarce mirrors in thy crystal sheen ;
The lover draws his tenderest sigh
Far in thy shadowy dells unseen.
Along thy gently-coursing stream
The huntsman, heedless, loves to roam ;
The poet dreams his fondest dream
Within thy solitary home.
Thou art well guarded by a host,
For on thy sloping 'bankment stand
Such knarled sentinels as boast
A lineage aged as the land.
No hardy woodman dares intrude
To rob thee of thy ancient shade,
Thy mimic cliffs have long withstood
The furrowing plough and vassal spade.
The wild thrush wings its reedy note
Through thy lone forest, liquid clear,
Whose answering echoes, far remote,
Fling back a dim and plaintive cheer.
