LIFE AT NIAGARA.
AN EPISTLE FROM THE FALLS.
Dear N.: While the rainbows are spanning the Falls,
And a lusty Scotch infant next door raises squalls,—
While the frantic young mother shouts madly for milk,
In tones not so soft, quite, as satin or silk,—
Your friend, grown poetic, has snatched up his pen,
To dash off a line to " the best of young men."
And a lusty Scotch infant next door raises squalls,—
While the frantic young mother shouts madly for milk,
In tones not so soft, quite, as satin or silk,—
Your friend, grown poetic, has snatched up his pen,
To dash off a line to " the best of young men."
You've been at the Falls, and they can't be described,
Though Coleridge himself from the tomb should be bribed;
Pile mountains of paper, and flood them with ink,
And Niagara is dry, though the reader should sink.
But there's life here, my friend,—closely packed to be sure,—
For fashion condenses what man must endure:
Though Coleridge himself from the tomb should be bribed;
Pile mountains of paper, and flood them with ink,
And Niagara is dry, though the reader should sink.
But there's life here, my friend,—closely packed to be sure,—
For fashion condenses what man must endure:
