What! were ye born to be And so to bid good night? 'Twas pity nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we I VIII. LAKE GEORGE. AUGUST. An hour upon the railroad brings you from Saratoga to the Moreau station. Here you climb a stage-coach to roll across the country to Lake George. It is a fine strip of landscape variously outlined, and with glimpses of beautiful distance. The driver pointed out to us the tree under which Jane McCrea was murdered by the Indians—a lovely spot, meet for so sad a tradition. Between us and the dim-rolling outline of the Green Mountains were the windings of the Hudson, which here, in its infancy, is a stream of fine promise, and rolled our fancies forward to its beautiful banks below, its dark highlands, its glassy reaches, and the forms of friends on lawns and in gardens along its shores. We dined at Glen's Falls, which we visited. They are oppressed by the petty tyranny of a decayed dynasty of saw-mills, and the vexed river rages and tumbles among channeled rocks, making a fine spec |