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When even on the mountain's breast
The chainless winds were all at rest,
And he could hear the river's flow
From the calm paradise below;
Warmed with his former fires again,

He framed this rude but solemn strain.

I.

Here will I make my home-for here at least I see, Upon this wild Sierra's side, the steps of Liberty;

Where the locust chirps unscared beneath the unpruned lime, And the merry bee doth hide from man the spoil of the mountain thyme ;

Where the pure winds come and go, and the wild vine gads at will,

An outcast from the haunts of men, she dwells with Nature still.

II.

I see the valleys, Spain! where thy mighty rivers run, And the hills that lift thy harvests and vineyards to the sun, And the flocks that drink thy brooks and sprinkle all the

green,

Where lie thy plains, with sheep-walks seamed, and olive shades between :

I see thy fig-trees bask, with the fair pomegranate near,
And the fragrance of thy lemon-groves can almost reach me

here.

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Fair-fair-but fallen Spain! 'tis with a swelling heart, That I think on all thou might'st have been, and look at what

thou art;

But the strife is over now-and all the good and brave,
That would have raised thee up, are gone, to exile or the

grave.

Thy fleeces are for monks, thy grapes for the convent feast, And the wealth of all thy harvest-fields for the pampered lord and priest.

IV.

But I shall see the day-it will come before I dieI shall see it in my silver hairs, and with an age-dimmed

eye;

When the spirit of the land to liberty shall bound,

As yonder fountain leaps away from the darkness of the

ground;

And, to my mountain cell, the voices of the free

Shall rise, as from the beaten shore the thunders of the sea.

9*

MONUMENT MOUNTAIN.

THOU who wouldst see the lovely and the wild
Mingled in harmony on Nature's face,
Ascend our rocky mountains. Let thy foot
Fail not with weariness, for on their tops

The beauty and the majesty of earth,

Spread wide beneath, shall make thee to forget

The steep and toilsome way. There, as thou stand'st,
The haunts of men below thee, and around
The mountain summits, thy expanding heart
Shall feel a kindred with that loftier world
To which thou art translated, and partake
The enlargement of thy vision. Thou shalt look
Upon the green and rolling forest tops,
And down into the secrets of the glens,

And streams, that with their bordering thickets strive
To hide their windings. Thou shalt gaze, at once,
Here on white villages, and tilth, and herds,
And swarming roads, and there on solitudes
That only hear the torrent, and the wind,
And eagle's shriek. There is a precipice
That seems a fragment of some mighty wall,
Built by the hand that fashioned the old world,

MONUMENT MOUNTAIN.

To separate its nations, and thrown down

When the flood drowned them. To the north, a path
Conducts you up the narrow battlement.

Steep is the western side, shaggy and wild
With mossy trees, and pinnacles of flint,
And many a hanging crag. But, to the east,
Sheer to the vale go down the bare old cliffs,--
Huge pillars, that in middle heaven upbear
Their weather-beaten capitals, here dark
With the thick moss of centuries, and there
Of chalky whiteness where the thunderbolt
Has splintered them. It is a fearful thing
To stand upon the beetling verge, and see
Where storm and lightning, from that huge gray wall,
Have tumbled down vast blocks, and at the base
Dashed them in fragments, and to lay thine ear
Over the dizzy depth, and hear the sound

Of winds, that struggle with the woods below,
Come up like ocean murmurs. But the scene
Is lovely round; à beautiful river there
Wanders amid the fresh and fertile meads,
The paradise he made unto himself,
Mining the soil for ages. On each side
The fields swell upward to the hills; beyond,

Above the hills, in the blue distance, rise

The mighty columns with which earth props heaven.
There is a tale about these gray old rocks,

A sad tradition of unhappy love,

And sorrows borne and ended, long ago,

When over these fair vales the savage sought

103

104

MONUMENT MOUNTAIN.

His game in the thick woods.

There was a maid,

The fairest of the Indian maids, bright-eyed,
With wealth of raven tresses, a light form,
And a gay heart. About her cabin door
The wide old woods resounded with her song
And fairy laughter all the summer day.

She loved her cousin; such a love was deemed,
By the morality of those stern tribes,
Incestuous, and she struggled hard and long
Against her love, and reasoned with her heart,
As simple Indian maiden might. In vain.
Then her eye lost its lustre, and her step
Its lightness, and the gray old men that passed
Her dwelling, wondered that they heard no more
The accustomed song and laugh of her, whose looks
Were like the cheerful smile of Spring, they said
Upon the Winter of their age.
She went

To weep where no eye saw, and was not found
When all the merry girls were met to dance,
And all the hunters of the tribe were out;
Nor when they gathered from the rustling husk
The shining ear; nor when, by the river's side,
They pulled the grape and startled the wild shades
With sounds of mirth. The keen-eyed Indian dames
Would whisper to each other, as they saw
Her wasting form, and say, the girl will die.

One day into the bosom of a friend,

A playmate of her young and innocent years,

She poured her griefs. Thou know'st, and thou alone, She said, for I have told thee, all my love,

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