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.
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.
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
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
Fair-fair-but fallen Spain! 'tis with a swelling heart, That I think on all thou might'st have been, and look at what
But the strife is over now-and all the good and brave, That would have raised thee up, are gone, to exile or the
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.
But I shall see the day-it will come before I dieI shall see it in my silver hairs, and with an age-dimmed
When the spirit of the land to liberty shall bound,
As yonder fountain leaps away from the darkness of the
And, to my mountain cell, the voices of the free
Shall rise, as from the beaten shore the thunders of the sea.
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,
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
His game in the thick woods.
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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