AMERICAN SCENERY,

THE CATTERSKILL FALLS.

(FROM BELOW.)

FROM the precipice whence our first view of this Fall is taken, the descent is steep and slippery to the very brink of the torrent, which it is necessary to cross on the wild blocks which lie scattered in its rocky bed. From thence, literally buried in forest foliage, the tourist will enjoy a very different, but, perhaps, more striking and picturesque view than the other. The stream, at a vast height above him, is seen leaping from ledge to ledge-sometimes lost, sometimes sparkling in sunshine, till it courses impetuously beneath the rock on which he is seated, and is lost in the deep unbroken obscurity of the forest. The rocky ledges above, worn by time, have the appearance of deep caverns, and beautifully relieve the fall of the light and silvery stream. In the winter, the vast icicles which are suspended from the ledges of rock, and shine like pillars against the deep obscurity of the caverns behind, afford a most romantic spectacle, one which has afforded a subject to Bryant for one of the most imaginative of his poems.

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THE CATTERSKILL FALLS.

THE CATTERSKILL FALLS.

"Midst greens and shades the Catterskill leaps
From cliff's where the wood-flower clings;
All summer he moistens his verdant steeps

With the sweet light spray of the mountain springs;
And he shakes the woods on the mountain side,
When they drip with the rains of autumn-tide.

"But when, in the forest bare and old,

The blast of December calls,

He builds, in the starlight clear and cold,

A palace of ice where his torrent falls,
With turret, and arch, and fretwork fair,
And pillars blue as the summer air.

"For whom are those glorious chambers wrought,

In the cold and cloudless night?

Is there neither spirit nor motion of thought
In forms so lovely and hues so bright?
Hear what the grey-haired woodmen tell
Of this wild stream, and its rocky dell.
"Twas hither a youth of dreamy mood,
A hundred winters ago,

Had wandered over the mighty wood,

When the panther's track was fresh on the snow;
And keen were the winds that came to stir
The long dark boughs of the hemlock fir.

"Too gentle of mien he seemed, and fair,
For a child of those rugged steeps;
His home lay low in the valley, where
The kingly Hudson rolls to the deeps;
But he wore the hunter's frock that day,
And a slender gun on his shoulder lay.

"And here he paused, and against the trunk
Of a tall grey linden leant,

When the broad clear orb of the sun had sunk

From his path in the frosty firmament,
And over the round dark edge of the hill
A cold green light was quivering still.
"And the crescent moon, high over the green,

From a sky of crimson shone,

On that icy palace, whose towers were seen
To sparkle as if with stars of their own;
While the water fell, with a hollow sound,
"Twixt the glistening pillars ranged around.

"Is that a being of life, that moves

Where the crystal battlements rise?
A maiden, watching the moon she loves,
At the twilight hour, with pensive eyes?
Was that a garment which seemed to gleam
Betwixt the eye and the falling stream?