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(Excerpt)
’T WAS a glorious scene,—the mountain height | |
| Aflame with sunset’s colored light. | |
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| Even the black pines, grim and old, | |
| Transfigured stood with crowns of gold. | |
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| There on a hoary crag we stood | 5 |
| When the tide of glory was at its flood. | |
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| Close by our feet, the mountain’s child, | |
| The delicate harebell, sweetly smiled, | |
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| Lifting its cups of tender blue | |
| From seam and rift where the mosses grew. | 10 |
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| The everlasting’s mimic snow | |
| Whitened the dry, crisp grass below; | |
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| While the yellow flames of golden-rod | |
| Through clumps of starry asters glowed, | |
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| And the sumach’s ruddy fires burned through | 15 |
| Tangled hazels of tawny hue. | |
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| Below stretched wide the skirt of wood | |
| Where the maple’s green was dashed with blood; | |
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| Where the beech had donned a golden brown, | |
| And the ash was sad in a purple gown, | 20 |
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| And the straight birch stems gleamed white between | |
| The sombre spruces, darkly green. | |
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| Clasping the mountain’s very feet, | |
| The small lake lay, a picture sheet, | |
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| Where the pomp of sunset cloud and shine | 25 |
| Glowed in a setting of dark old pine. | |
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| Far in the west blue peaks arose,— | |
| One with a crest of glittering snows,— | |
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| With hill and valley and wood between, | |
| And lakes transfused with the sunset sheen. * * * * * | 30 |
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