A busy city darting o’er the plains
Across the turnpikes and through hawthorne
lanes,
O’er wide morasses and profound
ravines—
Through stately woods where red deer only
run,
And grassy lawn and farmer’s planted
field—
Was that swift train that flashed along
the hills,
And smoked through sloping valleys, and
surprised
The mild-eyed milk-maid with her morning
pail.
I dreamed my dreams until the village
lay
White in the morning light, and holding
up
Its modest steeples in the crystal air.
A moment, and the picture changed no more,
But wore a serious constancy and showed
Its bare-boughed trees immovable.
I rose,
And stepping from the train, it glided
on,
Sweeping around the hill; the whistle
shrill
Rang through the stricken air. A
moment more
It rolled along the iron out of sight.
NEW YORK, Thursday, May 14th, 1846.
My dear Friend,—You will of course have
supposed that I did not receive your letter of the
2d May, or it would have been more promptly answered.
On that very day I responded to a most urgent invitation
from Mrs. Cranch to go up the river and make a visit
with Burrill, at her father’s house upon the
Hudson. I have only returned to-day, and hasten
to send you this, bidding you to come, for the Choral
Symphony is to be played, and there are to be various
preparatory rehearsals of the orchestra and the chorus.
This I know from the papers, but I will to-morrow inquire
of Herr Timm the particulars of the concert.
If I had not thought of remaining I would certainly
do so if you will come. I am only sorry that there
is no room fit for such a performance; it will be
hard to get far enough away. Immediately that
I have ascertained what particulars are ascertainable
I will write again, although you must not wait for
that, but come as soon as you can.
And now, what shall I say to you of the serene, sparkling
splendors of the Spring which upon the Hudson have
been flowing around me, so that my few days swelled
into a fortnight almost, consecrated like a long song
to romance and beauty. The tender young green
upon the riversides and upon the mountains behind,
which receive into their deep, dark mass of foliage
the light, golden, smooth, colored fields which rise
backward from the ample river, and (at Mr. Downing’s
at Newburg, opposite, a brother-in-law, and the author
of fruit treatises, etc.) the splendid magnolias,
which resemble deepest-dyed beakers, whence the fragrance
arose almost palpable, it was so strong and sweet,
and I looked to see rainbow-colored clouds floating
from out the flowers—these, with the white
blossoms of the orchards and the spray-like, snowy
beauty of the Dogwood; in the early morning the sunlight,
streaming down the mountains into the bosom of the
river, kisses flashing and fiery, yet most gentle and
