To the Memory of Charles Brockden Brown

We seek not mossy bank, or whispering stream,
Or pensive shade, in twilight softness decked,
Or dewy canopy of flowers, or beam
Of autumn's sun, by various foliage checked.

Our sweetest river, and our loveliest glen,
Our softest waterfalls, just heard afar,
Our sunniest slope, or greenest hillock, when
It takes its last look at the evening star,

May suit some softer soul. But thou wert fit
To tread our mighty mountains, and to mark,
In untracked woods, the eagle's pinions flit
O'er roaring cataracts and chasms dark:

To talk and walk with Nature, in her wild
Attire, her boldest form, her sternest mood;
To be her own enthusiastic child,
And seek her in her awful solitude.

There, when through stormy clouds, the struggling moon
On some wolf-haunted rock, shone cold and clear,
Thou couldst commune, inspired by her alone,
With all her works of wonder and of fear.

Now thou art gone, and who thy walks among,
Shall rove, and meditate, and muse on thee?
No whining rhymster with his schoolboy song,
May wake thee with his muling minstrelsy!

Some western muse, if western muse there be,
When the rough wind in clouds has swathed her form,
Shall boldly wind her wintry horn for thee,
And tune her gusty music to the storm.

The cavern's echoes, and the forest's voice,
Shall chime in concord to the waking tone;
And winds and waters, with perpetual noise,
For thee shall make their melancholy moan.