Professor John Wilson (1785–1854)

GO up among the mountains, when the storm

Of midnight howls, but go in that wild mood,

When the soul loves tumultuous solitude,

And through the haunted air, each giant form

Of swinging pine, black rock, or ghostly cloud,

That veils some fearful cataract tumbling loud,

Seems to thy breathless heart with life imbued.

’Mid those gaunt, shapeless things thou art alone!

The mind exists, thinks, trembles through the ear,

The memory of the human world is gone,

And time and space seem living only here.

O, worship thou the visions then made known,

While sable glooms round Nature’s temple roll,

And her dread anthem peals into thy soul!