Page:The Writings of John Green Whittier (v.1).pdf/275

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AMONG THE HILLS.
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Of One who bore it, making it divineWith the ineffable tenderness of God;Let common need, the brotherhood of prayer,The heirship of an unknown destiny,The unsolved mystery round about us, makeA man more precious than the gold of Ophir.Sacred, inviolate, unto whom all thingsShould minister, as outward types and signsOf the eternal beauty which fulfilsThe one great purpose of creation, Love,The sole necessity of Earth and Heaven!
For weeks the clouds had raked the hills And vexed the vales with raining,And all the woods were sad with mist, And all the brooks complaining.
At last, a sudden night-storm tore The mountain veils asunder,And swept the valleys clean before The bosom of the thunder.
Through Sandwich notch the west-wind sang Good morrow to the cotter;And once again Chocorua’s horn Of shadow pierced the water.
Above his broad lake Ossipee, Once more the sunshine wearing,Stooped, tracing on that silver shield His grim armorial bearing.
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