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| O, THINK of the days when the crag’s hoary masses | |
| Bent o’er one green forest in Houra’s wild passes, | |
| When the gray wolf was king of the forest and mountain, | |
| And the red deer ran free by the blue torrent’s shore, | |
| When the prey scarcely rested at eve by the fountain, | 5 |
| Swept on by the spear of the wild creachadore! | |
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| ’T was a brave time, a wild time,—the hills seem to mourn | |
| Till the splendor of glade and of forest return; | |
| Yet is there not splendor as wild and as shaggy, | |
| Where the huge blasted roots of that forest remain, | 10 |
| Wide spread o’er each deep cave and precipice craggy, | |
| Sending scions of strength to the blue sky again? | |
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| Afar where Molama in thunder is flowing, | |
| Afar in Gleneigh are these strong scions growing,— | |
| They spring from the stream and they tower from the ledges | 15 |
| Of the huge rocks which frown o’er that wild fairy dell; | |
| Like young guardian giants encircling the edges | |
| Of the deep, silent pool and the moss-wreathéd well. | |
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| How thick in the summer their green leaves were shining! | |
| How sear and how scattered at autumn’s declining! | 20 |
| But the wild hills shall see them far greener than ever, | |
| When winter hath fled from the bright smiles of May; | |
| Ah! thus should Adversity’s children endeavor | |
| To breast the rude blasts, like the oaks of Gleneigh! | |
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