Yet, grim and earlier relic, doth it tell Its history in its own inspiring way.

But from the crag of noble grandeur leaping Our vision falls upon the level plain,

Swift over it, the evening shadows creeping Leaves a dull dreary waste upon the main.

Beneath the plain a wall of dingy brown, Obscured the last faint rays of waning light.

The lark's last note sounds through the twilight gloom As monitory of the coming night.

Along the surface of the shining river,

A sleepy swallow skims the water's brim, So close it makes the shimmering surface shiver, The light, translucent, flashing through the dim. One lovely islet, decked with foliage green, Breaks this bright scene stretching from shore to shore ; Tranquil she reigns, an Oriental queen, In majesty and silence wields her power.

We gaze upon the fine artistic work

By nature drawn, and painted on the sky,

On island, and on shore that's growing dark, And on the turbid waters flowing by.

It fades ! The picture was too rare a kind, To linger long, and gladden mortal sight.

Like every earthly pleasure, leaves behind Dark shadows, creeping on to darker night.

Now here, new scenes on the then new bridge, and we were the new people. Ah ! surely here was an original poem, something of a descriptive nature that people would like, and the like of which I felt had never before been written.

And for over twenty years I lived in the thought that I was the only "poet" who had dedicated Scottsbluff in "immortal rhyme."