Park Benjamin

Written in view of the harbor of New York on the loveliest and calmest of the last days of autumn.

IS this a painting? Are those pictured clouds

Which on the sky so movelessly repose?

Has some rare artist fashioned forth the shrouds

Of yonder vessel? Are these imaged shows

Of outline, figure, form, or is there life—

Life with a thousand pulses—in the scene

We gaze upon, those towering banks between,

Ere tossed these billows in tumultuous strife?

Billows! there’s not a wave! the waters spread

One broad, unbroken mirror! all around

Is hushed to silence,—silence so profound

That a bird’s carol, or an arrow sped

Into the distance, would, like larum bell,

Jar the deep stillness and dissolve the spell!