Night comes upon the Arkansa with swift stride,—
Its dark and turbid waters roll along,
Bearing wrecked trees and drift,—deep, red, and wide.
The heavy forests sleeps on either side,
To the water's edge low-stooping; and among
The patient stars the moon her lamp has hung,
Lit with the spirit of the buried sun.
No blue waves dance the stream's dark bosom on,
Glittering like beauty's sparkling starry tears;
No crest of foam, crowning the river dun,
Its misty ridge of frozen light uprears:
One sole relief in the great void appears—
A dark, blue ridge, set sharp against the sky,
Beyond the forest's utmost boundary.

Not so wast thou, O, brave old Merrimac!
As I remember thee; as thou art seen
By the Soul's eyes, when, dreaming, I go back
To my old home, and see the small boats tack
On thy blue waters, gliding swift between
The old gray rocks that o'er them fondly lean,
Their foreheads scarred with lightning. There, around
Grim capes the surly waterswhirl and bound;
And here and there grave patriarchal trees
Persuade the grass to clothe the reluctant ground
And frowning banks with green. Still villages
Sleep in the embraces of the cool sea-breeze:—
Ah, brave old stream!—thou seemest to infold
My heart within thy waters, as of old.