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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
America: Vols. XXV–XXIX. 1876–79.

Middle States: Mohawk, the River, N. Y.

Falls of the Mohawk

By Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

FROM rise of morn till set of sun

I ’ve seen the mighty Mohawk run;

And as I marked the woods of pine

Along his mirror darkly shine,

Like tall and gloomy forms that pass

Before the wizard’s midnight glass;

And as I viewed the hurrying pace

With which he ran his turbid race,

Rushing, alike untired and wild,

Through shades that frowned and flowers that smiled,

Flying by every green recess

That wooed him to its calm caress,

Yet, sometimes turning with the wind,

As if to leave one look behind,

Oft have I thought, and thinking sighed,

How like to thee, thou restless tide,

May be the lot, the life of him

Who roams along thy water’s brim;

Through what alternate wastes of woe

And flowers of joy my path may go;

How many a sheltered, calm retreat

May woo the while my weary feet,

While still pursuing, still unblest,

I wander on, nor dare to rest;

But, urgent as the doom that calls

Thy water to its destined falls,

I feel the world’s bewildering force

Hurry my heart’s devoted course

From lapse to lapse, till life be done,

And the spent current cease to run.

One only prayer I dare to make,

As onward thus my course I take,—

Oh, be my falls as bright as thine!

May heaven’s relenting rainbow shine

Upon the mist that circles me,

As soft as now it hangs o’er thee!