IDA.

WHERE Hudson’s wave, o’er silvery sands, Winds through the hills afar, Old Cro’nest like a monarch stands, Crowned with a single star: And there, amid the billowy swells Of rock-ribbed, cloud-capt earth, My fair and gentle IDA dwells, A nymph of mountain birth.

The snow-curl that the cliff receives, The diamonds of the showers, Spring’s tender blossoms, buds and leaves, The sisterhood of flowers,— Morn’s early beam, eve’s balmy breeze, Her purity define; But IDA’S dearer far than these To this fond breast of mine.

My heart is on the hills. The shades Of night are on my brow; Ye pleasant haunts and silent glades, My soul is with you now! I bless the star-crowned islands where My IDA’S footsteps roam,— Oh for a falcon’s wing to bear Me onward to my home!