Wistful, longing, through the green
Twilight of the clustered pines,
In their faces rarely seen

Beauty more than mortal shines.

Fringed with gold their mantles flow On the slopes of westering knolls; In the wind they whisper low

Of the Sunset Land of Souls.

Doubt who may, O friend of mine!
Thou and I have seen them too;

On before with beck and sign
Still they glide, and we pursue.

More than clouds of purple trail
In the gold of setting day;
More than gleams of wing or sail
Beckon from the sea-mist gray.

Glimpses of immortal youth,

Gleams and glories seen and flown, Far-heard voices sweet with truth, Airs from viewless Eden blown, —

Beauty that eludes our grasp,

Sweetness that transcends our taste,

Loving hands we may not clasp,
Shining feet that mock our haste,

Gentle eyes we closed below,
Tender voices heard once more,
Smile and call us, as they go

On and onward, still before.

Guided thus, O friend of mine!
Let us walk our little way,
Knowing by each beckoning sign
That we are not quite astray.

Chase we still, with baffled feet,
Smiling eye and waving hand,
Sought and seeker soon shall meet,
Lost and found, in Sunset Land!

Whittier.

A child 'midst ancient mountains I have stood
A fountain issuing into light

.

All along the valley, stream that flashest white
And the storm is abroad in the mountains

And then I look'd up toward a mountain-track
Arethusa arose.

A sad man on a summer day

A single step, that freed me from the skirts

A sound of many waters!

-

now I know
Beauty a living presence of the earth

Beckon us upward, ever-soaring clouds.
Behold the rocky wall

Beyond the grizzly cliffs which guard

Beyond the hills where suns go down

Brutes graze the mountain-top, with faces prone
Can I make white enough my thought for thee.
Centuries old are the mountains

Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake

Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height
Come, golden Evening, in the west

Come ye into the summer woods

Comes something down with eventide

Deep set in distant seas it lies

252

ΠΙΟ

181

199

172

210

181

82

243

250

259

Far up on Katahdin thou towerest

Five years have past; five summers, with the length

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea

For the growing youth

For the wealth of pathless forests

From Stirling Castle we had seen

Full many a glorious morning have I seen
God ploughed, one day, with an earthquake
Golden days where are they?

-

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star
He clasps the crag with hooked hands.
He stood there, a shape Titanic

He who, by wilful disesteem of life

Hollo, my Fancy! Thou art free

Hushed with broad sunlight lies the hill

I came to my country, but not with the hope

I could not, ever and anon, forbear
I do not count the hours I spend.
If ever your feet, like my own.

I looked upon a plain of green

I missed the mountain I had loved

In a valley, centuries ago

In the pleasant orchard closes.

In the wood where shadows are deepest

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad?.

I stood upon the hills, when heaven's wide arch

I think we are too ready with complaint

It is an isle under Ionian skies

It mounts athwart the windy hill

Last eve, I rode over the mountains

IIO

28

254

Laugh of the mountain! - lyre of bird and tree!

Let us go, lassie, go

Listen, listen, Mary mine.

Long I followed happy guides

Look at them, stranger! these dim, hideous cliffs
Loud wind, strong wind, sweeping o'er the mountains.
Methought among the lawns together

'Mid the mountains Euganean

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here
Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains

O, it is pleasant with a heart at ease.

O love, what hours were thine and mine

O Mountain Stream! the Shepherd and his cot

O my heart, my heart is sick awishing and awaiting

One summer morning we had walked abroad

On Zurich's spires with rosy light

O, somewhere in the living realms that lie

O Stream descending to the sea

O, sweet it was, when, from that bleak abode

Out in the golden summer air

O wonderful mountain of Blaavin
Over hill, over dale

Proud were ye, Mountains, when, in times of old

Read me a lesson, Muse, and speak it loud
Rippling through thy branches goes the sunshine
Slow toiling upward from the misty vale
Smiles of the year! that now and then
Some say that gleams of a remoter world