The Falls of the Passaic
In a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green,
Where nature had fashioned a soft, sylvan scene,
The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer,
Passaic in silence rolled gentle and clear.
No grandeur of prospect astonished the sight,
No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight;
Here the wild floweret blossomed, the elm proudly waved,
And pure was the current the green bank that laved.
But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood,
And deep in its gloom fixed his murky abode,
Who loved the wild scene that the whirlwinds ...