I 

Tuscara! thou art lovely now, 
Thy woods, that frown'd in sullen strength 
Like plumage on a giant's brow, 
Have bowed their massy pride at length. 
The rustling maize is green around, 
The sheep is in the Congar's bed; 
And clear the ploughman's whistlings sound 
Where war-whoop's pealed o'er mangled dead. 
Fair cots around thy breast are set, 
Like pearls upon a coronet; 
And in Aluga's vale below 
The gilded grain is moving slow 
Like yellow moonlight on the sea, 
Where waves are swelling peacefully; 
As beauty's breast, when quiet dreams 
Come tranquilly and gently by; 
When all she loves and hopes for seems 
To float in smiles before her eye. 

II 

And hast thou lost the grandeur rude 
That made me breathless, when at first 
Upon my infant sight you burst, 
The monarch of the solitude? 
No; there is yet thy turret rock, 
The watch-tower of the skies, the lair 
Of Indian Gods, who, in the shock 
Of bursting thunders, slumbered there; 
And trim thy bosom is arrayed 
In labour's green and glittering vest, 
And yet thy forest locks of shade 
Shake stormy on that turret crest. 
Still hast thou left the rocks, the floods, 
And nature is the loveliest then, 
When first amid her caves and woods 
She feels the busy tread of men; 
When every tree, and bush, and flower, 
Springs wildly in its native grace; 
Ere art exerts her boasted power, 
That brightened only to deface. 

III 

Yes! thou art lovelier now than ever; 
How sweet 'twould be, when all the air 
In moonlight swims, along thy river 
To couch upon the grass, and hear 
Niagara's everlasting voice, 
Far in the deep blue west away; 
That dreaming and poetic noise 
We mark not in the glare of day, 
Oh! how unlike its torrent-cry, 
When o'er the brink the tide is driven, 
As if the vast and sheeted sky 
In thunder fell from heaven. 

IV 

Were I but there, the daylight fled, 
With that smooth air, the stream, the sky, 
And lying on that minstrel bed 
Of nature's own embroidery 
With those long tearful willows o'er me, 
That weeping fount, that solemn light, 
With scenes of sighing tales before me, 
And one green, maiden grave in sight; 
How mournfully the strain would rise 
Of that true maid, whose fate can yet 
Draw rainy tears from stubborn eyes; 
From lids that ne'er before were wet. 
She lies not here, but that green grave 
Is sacred from the plough -- and flowers, 
Snow-drops, and valley-lilies, wave 
Amid the grass; and other showers 
Than those of heaven have fallen there.