Some dried grass-tufts from the wide flowery field,
A muscle-shell from the lone fairy shore,
Some antlers from tall woods which never more
To the wild deer a safe retreat can yield,
An eagle's feather which adorned a Brave,
Well-nigh the last of his despairing band,--
For such slight gifts wilt thou extend thy hand
When weary hours a brief refreshment crave?
I give you what I can, not what I would
If my small drinking-cup would hold a flood,
As Scandinavia sung those must contain
With which, the giants gods may entertain;
In our dwarf day we drain few drops, and soon must thirst again.




CHAPTER I.

NIAGARA.


Niagara, June 10, 1843.

Since you are to share with me such foot-notes as may be made on the
pages of my life during this summer's wanderings, I should not be
quite silent as to this magnificent prologue to the, as yet, unknown
drama. Yet I, like others, have little to say, where the spectacle is,
for once, great enough to fill the whole life, and supersede thought,
giving us only its own presence. "It is good to be here," is the best,