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BY C. F. HOFFMAN.

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 stirred By things around him, that 'tis vain concealing A little music in his soul still lingers Whene'er its keys are touched 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 cold and calm as ever?

Bright Dian, 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 barque 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 spot than this the wide world over?

Doth Achelöus 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 Guadalquiver, Match they in beauty my own glorious river?

What though no turret gray nor ivied column Along these cliffs their sombre ruins rear? What though no frowning tower nor temple solemn Of despots tell and superstition here— What though that mouldering fort's fast-crumbling walls Did ne'er enclose a baron's bannered 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 on knighthood's haughtiest day Called forth chivalric host to battle fray:

For here amid these woods did He keep court, Before whose mighty soul the common crowd Of heroes, who alone for fame have fought, Are like the Patriarch's sheaves to Heav'n's chos'n bowed— He 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 wondered, Within these wild ravines have had their birth; Young Freedom's cannon from these glens have thundered, And sent their startling echoes 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-souled memories only, Is every moon-touched headland round me gleaming, Each cavernous 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 hast lent its soul, Since the lorn Lesbian languished 'neath thy light, Or fiery Romeo to his Juliet stole— Where dost thou find a fitter place on earth To nurse young love in hearts like theirs to birth?

But now, bright Peri of the skies, descending Thy pearly car hangs o'er yon mountain's 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.