WRITTEN AT TIVOLI FALLS,
        (NEAR ALBANY.)
 
            Sweet Tivoli! upon thy grassy side,
                Whene'er I linger through the summer day,
            And the soft music of thy silvery tide
                So sweetly wiles the lagging hours away,
        I cannot deem but thou are e'en as fair
        As that Italian vale whose name thy waters bear.
 
            O'er the old rocks thou boundest on thy way,
                and wood, and glen, re-echo to thy song;
            And then thy waters, weary of their play,
                Through the long grass glide silently along,
        So slow, and calm, as scarce to break the rest
        Of the young flowers that sleep upon thy placid breast.
 
            And sure no flowers are lovelier than these
                That bloom so sweetly on thy grassy side,
            And none more fair than the young forest trees,
                That bathe their branches in thy crystal tide;
        No sounds are sweeter than the winds at play
        Amid these trembling pines at close of summer day.
 
            Here by thy side I cannot feel alone;
                Above my head the sheltering branches bend,
            And at my feet the flowers; and thy low tone
                Breathes softly in my ear, and, like a friend
        Soothing my spirit, comes the perfumed air,
        To kiss my fevered brow and play amid my hair.
 
            Oh! when I turn me from the busy throng,
                Chilled with their frozen words and heartless smiles,
            I wander here, and thy melodious song,
                And this sweet scene, my sadder mood beguiles;
        And when I mingle with the crowd again,
        More calm and holy thoughts flow through my burning brain.
 
            Oft as I wander in these shadowy groves
                My wayward fancy spreads her truant wing,
            And through the past delightedly she roves,
                From its recesses many a scene to bring
        Of that far time, when, 'mid the deepening shade,
        The Indian lover wooed, and won, his dusky maid.
 
            And then she bears me on through future years,
                When her frail prison will have passed away,
            And she will look, with eyes undimmed by tears,
                Upon the glories of a brighter day;
        And still thy waves will glide as soft along;
        And still thy praise be sung in many a sweeter song.