Across the slopes whose wooded spaces hide The Hudson's sweep, rising more royal than Above the Tiber that of Hadrian, A tomb looms domed and dim o'er dusk and tide; All dreams of alien beauty that abide, The memory of lands beyond the span Of seas that sing the deeds of god and man, May reinspire the soul on Riverside. And now the mists are falling on the far Wide silver of the river, and a star Burns in the pines that crown the Palisades. Slowly the final streak of sunlight fades, And Claremont, with the lamps against its white, Shines like a limpid jewel in the night. |