OH, lift thy head, thou mountain lone, | |
| And mate thee with the sun! | |
| Thy rosy clouds are valeward blown, | |
| Thy stars that near at midnight shone | |
| Gone heavenward one by one, | 5 |
| And half of earth, and half of air, | |
| Thou risest vast, and gray, and bare, | |
| |
| And crowned with glory. Far southwest | |
| Monadnock sinks to see,— | |
| For all its trees and towering crest, | 10 |
| And clear Contoocook from its breast | |
| Poured down for wood and lea,— | |
| How statelier still, through frost and dew, | |
| Thy granite cleaves the distant blue. | |
| |
| And high to north, from fainter sky, | 15 |
| Franconia’s cliffs look down; | |
| Home to their crags the eagles fly, | |
| Deep in their caves the echoes die, | |
| The sparkling waters frown, | |
| And the Great Face that guards the glen | 20 |
| Pales with the pride of mortal men. | |
| |
| Nay, from their silent, crystal seat | |
| The White Hills scan the plain; | |
| Nor Saco’s leaping, lightsome feet, | |
| Nor Ammonoosuc wild to greet | 25 |
| The meadows and the main, | |
| Nor snows nor thunders can atone | |
| For splendor thou hast made thine own. | |
| |
| For thou hast joined the immortal band | |
| Of hills and streams and plains, | 30 |
| Shrined in the songs of native land,— | |
| Linked with the deeds of valor grand | |
| Told when the bright day wanes,— | |
| Part of the nation’s life art thou, | |
| O mountain of the granite brow! | 35 |
| |
| Not Pelion when the Argo rose, | |
| Grace of its goodliest trees; | |
| Nor Norway hills when woodman’s blows | |
| Their pines sent crashing through the snows | |
| That kings might rove the seas; | 40 |
| Nor heights that gave the Armada’s line, | |
| Thrilled with a joy as pure as thine. | |
| |
| Bold was the ship thy name that bore; | |
| Strength of the hills was hers; | |
| Heart of the oaks thy pastures store, | 45 |
| The pines that hear the north-wind roar, | |
| The dark and tapering firs; | |
| Nor Argonaut nor Viking knew | |
| Sublimer daring than her crew. | |
| |
| And long as Freedom fires the soul | 50 |
| Or mountains pierce the air, | |
| Her fame shall shine on honor’s scroll; | |
| Thy brow shall be the pilgrim’s goal | |
| Uplifted broad and fair; | |
| And, from thy skies, inspiring gales | 55 |
| O’er future seas shall sweep our sails. | |
| |
| Still summer keep thy pastures green, | |
| And clothe thy oaks and pines; | |
| Brooks laugh thy rifted rocks between; | |
| Snows fall serenely o’er the scene | 60 |
| And veil thy lofty lines; | |
| While crowned and peerless thou dost stand, | |
| The monarch of our mountain-land. | |
| |
