Classic Poem

I' VE trod thy mountain paths, thy valleys deep,
Through mazy thickets, and through tangled heath;
I've climb'd thy piled up rocks, from steep to steep,
And gazed with rapture on the scene beneath.

The noble plain that lies embosom'd there,
The jutting headlands in thy mimic bay—
The stream, impatient of his curb'd career,
Sweeping through mighty mountains far away,

His bosom burnish'd by the setting sun,
Who, loath to leave his own illumined west,
Dyes with his hues the waves he shines upon,
And gilds the clouds which cradle him to rest.

I love West Point, and long could fondly dwell
On scenes which must through life my memory haunt,
But you, too, reader, have been there as well
As I—if not, you'd better take the jaunt.

You rise at six and by half after ten
You're at the Point—I was when last I went—
You rest awhile at Cozzens's, and then
May stroll toward the upper Monument.

At two you dine (you'll think it not too soon,
Being sharp set from your long morning's ramble),
And to Fort Putnam in the afternoon,
O'er rocks and brushwood up the mountain scramble.

The view which this majestic height commands
Repays the trouble of its rough access;
For he beholds, who on the rampart stands,
A scene of grandeur and of loveliness:

The chain of mountains, sweeping far away—
The white encampment spread beneath his feet—
The sloop, slow dropping down the placid bay,
Her form reflected in its glassy sheet.

And where the river's banks less boldly swell,
Villas upon some sunny slope are seen;
And white huts buried in some wooded dell,
With chimneys peering through their leafy screen.

'Tis sweet to watch from hence at close of day,
While shadows lengthen on the mountain side,
The sunbeams steal from peak to peak away,
And white sails gleam along the dusky tide.

And sweet to woman's eye, at evening hour,
The gay parade that animates the plain,
When martial music lends its kindling power,
To thrill the bosom with some stirring strain—

Who, when they to their gleaming ranks repair,
Delight to gaze upon the bright array
Of young, good-looking fellows marshall'd there
In pigeon-breasted coats of iron-gray.

For girls the glare of warlike pomp adore,
Since, cased in steel, with lance and curtle-axe on,
Bold Cœur-de-Lion led his knights to war,
Down to the days of Major-General Jackson.

At night, when home returning, it is sweet,
While stars are twinkling in the fields above,
And whispering breezes in the foliage meet,
To move in such a scene with one we love.

To feel the spell of woman's witchery near,
And while the magic o'er our senses steals,
Believe the being whom we hold most dear,
As deeply as ourselves that moment feels.


The dolphin's hues are brightest while he dies,
The rainbow's glories in their birth decay,
And love's bright visions, like our autumn skies,
Will fade the soonest when they seem most gay.

In “true love” now I am an arrant skeptic,
My heart's best music is for ever hush'd;
Perhaps because I'm briefless and dyspeptic,
Perhaps my hopes were once too rudely crush'd.

But to return—to lawyerling too poor,
Leaving his duns and office to a friend,
To take the northern or the eastern tour,
This short excursion I will recommend.

'Tis but two dollars and a day bestow'd,
And far from town, its dust and busy strife,
You'll find the jaunt a pleasing episode
In the dull epic of a city life.