"Still rolling on, resistless stream,

How clear and calm thy waters run!
Or how, when vex'd, thy billows gleam
And sparkle in the burning sun,
And through romantic scenery roam
While hastening to thy ocean home!

The oaks that shade thy smiling face,

The cultured fields that grace thy banks,
The scaly brood-the finny race-

That in thy bosom play their pranks,

Throw bright enchantment 'round the scene,
And rouse the poet from his dream.

"And could thy rippling currents speak

A language audible to man,

From thy harsh tongue what strains would break,
Of deeds too deep for eyes to scan!

When War stalked forth in open day,
And thousands sank beneath his sway.

“Of Indian pow-wows on thy shore,

Of battle brands and scalping-knives;
Of fairest fields drenched with red gore,
In that wide waste of human lives
'Ere Freedom's angel from on high
Waved her white banner through the sky.

"Yes, on the fair and pleasant site

Where Wilkesbarre's thriving village stands,

The red chief, in his hour of might,

Sent forth his stern and harsh commands
To fish, to fowl and beasts of prey,
And tribes of men as wild as they.

"Nations have risen, flourished and then died;
Wooden nutmegs have had their day;
And works of art, displayed with pride,
Have passed from splendor to decay.
Sweet river, thou still flow'st sublime,
Unmindful of the shifts of Time.

"Then still roll on, grand stream, and waft
To busy marts our choicest wealth;

And send by the returning craft

That best material-save health

The coin, for which man wastes his strength
And dies a beggar-wretch at length."

The following stanzas, originally published in the Mount Carmel Register, were reprinted in the Record of the Times (Wilkes-Barré), June 21, 1854.

"There's a rolling stream with a silvery tide,

And a moss clad valley deep and wide,

And velvety banks with flowerets gay,

And rock crags crowned with pine and bay,
And laurel boughs, rich mantled o'er,

Where the red man trod in days of yore.
I love that stream!

"I've seen that stream in the moon's clear light,
When silver tipped each dizzy height,

And gauzy mists like fairies played

On the mountain's brow in the mellow shade;
And the twinkling stars, with diamond gleam,
Gemmed the mirrored breast of that silver stream.
I loved that stream!

The following poem, entitled "Wyoming," was written in 1872 by Miss Susan E. Dickinson, who, at a later period, was for some years a resident of Wyoming Valley and was quite widely known as a newspaper correspondent and a writer of verse.

"Storm has gone by; the trailing clouds that linger,

Add glory to the October afternoon

Touched by the artist sun with loving finger,
With gold and rose hues of a dawn of June.

"On the far hill-range purple mists are lying,

Struck through with golden light in wavering gleams;
On nearer slopes the Autumn woods are dying,
Robed in rich tints that mock the artist's dreams.

"The rare day woos us forth to gather treasure
Of unexpressed delight for heart and brain;
Each moment brings us some new sense of pleasure,
Or takes away some touch of former pain.

"We trace the mountain road, each turn unfolding
A rarer beauty to the raptured eye;
Each glen and stream and deep ravine is holding
Its own rich store of Autumn's pageantry.

"Our hearts spring up-the clear brook by us flowing
Voices our gladness with its silver tone.

We find the keen, clear air new life bestowing,
More sweet than Summer's breath o'er roses blown.

"Fain would we linger; but at last, regaining
The open vale, new joy each spirit thrills.
No Alpine roseate glow, the ice-peaks staining,
Outrivals that which crowns these eastern hills.

A VIEW OF WYOMING VALLEY FROM THE UPPER END OF ROSS HILL, NEAR THE WOODWARD COLLIERY. From a photograph taken in May, 1902