Poems (Proctor)/Kearsarge
For works with similar titles, see Kearsarge.
KEARSARGE.9
O lift thy head, thou mountain lone, And mate thee with the sun!Thy rosy clouds are valeward blown,Thy stars that near at midnight shone Gone heavenward one by one,And half of earth, and half of air,Thou risest vast and gray and bare
And crowned with glory. Far southwest Monadnock sinks to see,For all its trees and towering crestAnd clear Contoocook from its breast Poured down for wood and lea,How statelier still, through frost and dew,Thy granite cleaves the distant blue.
And high to north, from fainter sky, Franconia's cliffs look down;Home to their crags the eagles fly,Deep in their caves the echoes die, The sparkling waters frown,And the Great Face that guards the glenPales with the pride of mortal men.
Nay, from their silent, crystal seat The White Hills scan the plain;Nor Saco's leaping, lightsome feet,Nor Amimonoosuc wild to greet The meadows and the main,Nor snows nor thunders can atoneFor splendor thou hast made thine own.
For thou hast joined the immortal band Of hills and streams and plainsShrined in the songs of native land,—Linked with the deeds of valor grand Told when the bright day wanes,—Part of the nation's life art thou,O mountain of the granite brow!
Not Pelion when the Argo rose, Grace of its goodliest trees;Nor Norway hills when woodmen's blowsTheir pines sent crashing through the snows That kings might rove the seas;Nor heights that gave the Armada's line,Thrilled with a joy so pure as thine.
Bold was the ship thy name that bore; Strength of the hills was hers;Heart of the oaks thy pastures store,The pines that hear the north wind roar, The dark and tapering firs; Nor Argonaut nor Viking knewSublimer daring than her crew.
And long as Freedom fires the soul Or mountains pierce the air,Her fame shall shine on honor's scroll;Thy brow shall be the pilgrim's goal Uplifted broad and fair;And, from thy skies, inspiring galesO'er future seas shall sweep our sails.
Still summer keep thy pastures green, And clothe thy oaks and pines;Brooks laugh thy rifted rocks between;Snows fall serenely o'er the scene And veil thy lofty lines;While crowned and peerless thou dost stand,The monarch of our mountain-land.