The brake hung low on the rifted rock With sweet and holy dread, The wild-flowers trembled to the shock Of the red man's stealthy tread; And all around fell a fitful gleam Through the light and quivering spray. While the noise of a restless mountain-stream Rush'd out on the stilly day. The traveler who has stopped at Catskill, on his way up the Hudson, will remember that a creek of no insignificant breadth washes one side of the village, and that a heavy stone dwelling stands a little up from the water on a point of verdant meadow-land, which forms a lip of the stream, where it empties into the more majestic river. This farm-house is the only object that breaks the green and luxuriant beaut…
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