Where Hudson's Wave.

Where Hudson's wave o'er silvery sands
Winds through the hills afar,
Old Cronest like a monarch stands,
Crowned with a single star!
And there, amid the billowy swells
Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capped earth,
My fair and gentle Ida dwells,
A nymph of mountain-birth.

The snow-flake that the cliff receives,
The diamonds of the showers,
Spring's tender blossoms, buds, and leaves,
The sisterhood of flowers,
Morn's early beam, eve's balmy breeze,
Her purity define;
Yet Ida's dearer far than these
To this fond breast of mine.

My heart is on the hills.    The shades
Of night are on my brow;
Ye pleasant haunts and quiet glades,
My soul is with you now!
I bless the star-crowned highlands where
My Ida's footsteps roam:
O for a falcon's wing to bear
Me onward to my home!

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

The Land of Washington.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Epigram. On Reading Grim's Attack Upon Clinton.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

A Hero of the Revolution.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Rosabel.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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Up the Hudson.

Song and Chorus.




Up the Hudson!--Fleetly gliding
    To our haunts among the trees!
Joy the gallant vessel guiding
    With a fresh and cheerful breeze!
Wives and dear ones yearn to meet us--
    (Hearts that love us to the core!)
And with fond expressions greet us
    As we near the welcome shore!


Chorus.


Ho! ye inland seas and islands!--
    (Echo follows where we go!)
Ho! ye headlands, hills, and highlands!
    Ho! ye Undercliffeans, ho!


Up the Hudson!--Rock and river,
    Grove and glen pronounce His praise,
Who, of every "Good the Giver,"
    Leads us through these pleasant ways!--
Care recedes like water-traces
    Of our bark, as on we glide,
Where the hand of nature graces<...

George Pope Morris

O'er the Mountains.

Some spirit wafts our mountain lay--
                    Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
To distant groves and glens away!
                    Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
E'en so the tide of empire flows--
                    Ho! boys, hili ho!
Rejoicing as it westward goes!
                    Ho! boys, hili ho!
        To refresh our weary way
            Gush the crystal fountains,
        As a pilgrim band we stray
            Cheerly o'er the mountains.

The woodland rings with song and shout!
                    Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
As though a fairy hunt were out!
                    Hili ho! boys, hili ho!
E'en so the voice of woman cheers--
                    Ho! boys, hili ho!
The hearts of hardy mountaineers!
                    Ho! boys...

George Pope Morris

I'm With You Once Again.

I'm with you once again, my friends,
No more my footsteps roam;
Where it began my journey ends,
Amid the scenes of home.
No other clime has skies so blue,
Or streams so broad and clear,
And where are hearts so warm and true
As those that meet me here?

Since last with spirits, wild and free,
I pressed my native strand,
I've wandered many miles at sea,
And many miles on land.
I've seen fair realms of the earth
By rude commotion torn,
Which taught me how to prize the worth
Of that where I was born.

In other countries, when I heard
The language of my own,
How fondly each familiar word
Awoke an answering tone!
But when our woodland songs were sung
Upon a foreign mart,
The vows that faltered on the tongue
With rapture t...

George Pope Morris

A Legend of the Mohawk.

In the days that are gone, by this sweet-flowing water,
    Two lovers reclined in the shade of a tree;
She was the mountain-king's rosy-lipped daughter,
    The brave warrior-chief of the valley was he.
Then all things around them, below and above,
Were basking as now in the sunshine of love--
    In the days that are gone, by this sweet-flowing stream.

In the days that are gone, they were laid 'neath the willow,
    The maid in her beauty, the youth in his pride;
Both slain by the foeman who crossed the dark billow,
    And stole the broad lands where their children reside;
Whose fathers, when dying, in fear looked above,
And trembled to think of that chief and his love,
    In the days that are gone, by this sweet flowing stream.

George Pope Morris

To The Wissahiccon.

My feet shall tread no more thy mossy side,
    When once they turn away, thou Pleasant Water,
Nor ever more, reflected in thy tide,
    Will shine the eyes of the White Island's daughter.
But often in my dreams, when I am gone
    Beyond the sea that parts thy home and mine,
    Upon thy banks the evening sun will shine,
And I shall hear thy low, still flowing on.
And when the burden of existence lies
    Upon my soul, darkly and heavily,
I'll clasp my hands over my weary eyes,
    Thou Pleasant Water, and thy clear waves see.
Bright be thy course for ever and for ever,
    Child of pure mountain springs, and mountain snow;
And as thou wanderest on to meet the river
    Oh, still in light and music mayst thou flow!
I never shall come back to the...

Frances Anne Kemble

From The Upland To The Sea.

Shall we wake one morn of spring,
Glad at heart of everything,
Yet pensive with the thought of eve?
Then the white house shall we leave,
Pass the wind-flowers and the bays,
Through the garth, and go our ways,
Wandering down among the meads
Till our very joyance needs
Rest at last; till we shall come
To that Sun-god's lonely home,
Lonely on the hill-side grey,
Whence the sheep have gone away;
Lonely till the feast-time is,
When with prayer and praise of bliss,
Thither comes the country side.
There awhile shall we abide,
Sitting low down in the porch
By that image with the torch:
Thy one white hand laid upon
The black pillar that was won
From the far-off Indian mine;
And my hand nigh touching thine,
But not touching; and thy gown

William Morris