"Flow on forever in thy glorious robe
Of terror and of beauty. Yea, flow on,
Unfathomed and resistless! God hath set
His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud
Mantled around thy feet.
Methinks, to tint
Thy glorious features with our pencil's point,
Or woo thee to the tablet of a song,
Were profanation."
Early the following morning Florence was astir, begging her father to
take her to the Suspension Bridge. She hardly glanced at the magnificent
appearance of the Canada fall, as the sunbeams changed its floods of
spray into bright showers of diamonds.
There she stood on the piazza, her cheeks flushed with vermilion, and
her dark eyes glowing with the animation and excitement within.
"I cannot take you to the bridge till after breakfast," said her father,
in reply to her urgent appeals to set out immediately.
"Must I wait so long?" said Florence dismally.
While the father and daughter stood debating the point, Florence's
acquaintance of the preceding day appeared, attended by a handsome young
man, whom she introduced as her brother Edward.
Major Howard recollected the Williams family, and seemed gratified to
renew his acquaintance.
"Col. Malcome occupies your old residence," said he to the young man, as
they left the ladies to themselves and walked to the opposite side of
the piazza.
After a pause, Florence asked her companion if she "had ever visited
Wimbledon since she left it."
"No;" answered the young lady, "though I have often desired to do so.
There was a poor washerwoman there, who had a little boy about my own
age, in whom I took a childish interest, and I would like much to learn
something of his fate."
"What was his name?" asked Florence.
"Willie Danforth," said Miss Williams.
"I know a washerwoman by the name of Dilly Danforth," returned Florence.
"That is his mother."
"I do not think she has a child," said Florence doubtfully.
"Then he is dead!" said Miss Williams in a trembling voice.
Florence pitied her emotion, and after a few moments said, "There is a
tall, graceful lad, I think they call Willie Greyson, who lives with the
strange forest-recluse, of whom you have heard, perhaps."
"Greyson!" repeated Ellen; "that I have heard was Mrs. Danforth's maiden
name; but Willie was never called so; besides, why should he leave his
mother to dwell with a hermit? O, no; my Willie must be dead! I said,
when I left him, I should never see him again." And the gentle girl
wiped a tear from her sweet blue eye.
The gentlemen now approached, and Major Howard invited the Williamses to
join them in their visit to the Suspension Bridge; but they had an
engagement with a party to visit Goat Island. Florence felt relieved to
hear this, for she preferred, for reasons of her own, to be attended by
no one but her father on the present excursion. They now descended to
the dining-hall, where an elegant breakfast was served. Florence ate but
a few tiny bits of a delicate crisp muffin, and sipped lightly at her
cup of fragrant Mocha. Her eager desire to gain the bridge destroyed all
relish for the dainty dishes spread in such variety and profusion before
her. At length her father announced a carriage in readiness. Hastily
folding a sheet of note-paper, and placing it in her pocket, she swung
her gold chain over her neck, to which was attached a richly-embossed
pencil, and followed him to the door. They were soon rolling away.
Florence saw nothing till they gained the bridge,--frail, trembling
thing, thrown at such dizzy height above the wild, rushing river. Her
father asked if she would ride or walk over. She would walk, and he
ordered the driver to halt. Assisting her from the carriage, they
stepped upon the swaying fabric. Florence kept close to the railings,
though he cautioned her to walk in the centre, and called her attention
to the fine view of the falls in the distance. But she did not notice
them, and, pausing suddenly, drew the sheet of note-paper from her
pocket and commenced writing.
"What are you doing?" said her father at length, noticing her head bowed
close to the railing.
"Wait a moment and I'll tell you," said she. "There! I believe I have
them all correct now. Shall I read them to you?"
"What are they?" asked he.
"Verses. I found them written in pencil on this painted strip."
"Are they worth reading?" inquired he, carelessly.
"O, yes!" she returned, earnestly. "Very pretty, I think!"
"Well, go on, then!" said he.
She commenced in a low tone, which grew in depth and sweetness as she
proceeded. Surely, if the author had never had the vanity to deem his
brief production possessed of merit, he would have grown into conceit of
it had he heard it falling so sweetly from those half-tremulous lips.
"Sea-green river, white and foamy,
Madly rushing on below;
While that fairy-looking fabric
Bends, and sways, and trembles so;
Fragile, frail and fairy fabric,
Boldly thrown so wildly high;
Wondrous work of art suspended
Midway 'twixt the earth and sky!
"Strong and firm the metal wires
Stretch to Canada's green shores;
As to link with bands of iron
Queen Victoria's realms to ours.
Passage-way for England's lion,
Unborn ages may it be;
While above him, in the ether,
Sails the Eagle of the Free!
"In the distance, dread Niagara,
Thing of wonder and of fear,
Pours its mighty flood of waters,
While the echoes soothe the ear.
Nature's wildest forms of beauty.
All around profusely thrown;
Bowing in her proudest temple,
Beggared Art, we humbly own!"
As Florence ceased she refolded the paper and placed it in her pocket.
"You did not read the author's name," said her father.
"There was no name attached to them," answered she. "Nothing, only some
initials which were rather indistinct."
"Some modest bard," remarked the major, as they retraced their steps to
the carriage, "who, as Byron says,
'Like many a bard unknown,
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own.'
This poet sings of bridges, but does not sign his name to his songs."
Florence was silent during their drive to the hotel. Niagara seemed
suddenly to have lost its interest for her, and after a few more days
they departed, with young Williams and his lovable little sister in
their company.