I.

From the low sky-line of the hilly range
Before them, sweeping down its dark-green face
Into the lake that slumbered at its base,
A mighty cataract—so it seemed—
Over a hundred steps of marble streamed
And gushed, or fell in dripping overflow;
Flat steps, in flights half-circled—row o'er row,
Irregularly mingling side by side;
They and the torrent-current wide,
All rosy-hued, it seemed with sunset's glow.—
But what is this!—no roar, no sound,
Disturbs that torrent's hush profound!
The wanderers near and nearer come—
Still is the mighty cataract dumb!
A thousand fairy lights may shimmer
With tender sheen, with glossy glimmer,
O'er curve advanced and salient edge
Of many a luminous water-ledge;
A thousand slanting shadows pale
May fling their thin transparent veil
O'er deep recess and shallow dent
In many a watery stair's descent:
Yet, mellow-bright, or mildly dim,
Both lights and shades—both dent and rim—
Each wavy streak—each warm snow-tress—
Stand rigid, mute and motionless!
No faintest murmur—not a sound—
Relieves that cataract's hush profound:
No tiniest bubble, not a flake
Of floating foam is seen to break
The smoothness where it meets the lake:
Along that shining surface move page break

page 47 No ripples; not the slightest swell
Rolls o'er the mirror darkly green,
Where, every feature limned so well—
Pale, silent, and serene as death—
The Cataract's image hangs beneath
The Cataract—but not more serene,
More phantom-silent than is seen
The white rose-hued reality above.