This page has been validated.
83
TO THE MOUNTAIN WINDS.
How divine
The liberty, for frail, for mortal man,
To roam at large among unpeopled glens,
And mountainous retirements, only trod
By devious footsteps!— Regions consecrate
To oldest time!—And, reckless of the storm
That keeps the raven quiet in his nest,
Be as a presence or a motion—One
Among the many there.
Wordsworth.
Mountain winds! oh! whither do ye call me?
Vainly, vainly would my steps pursue!
Chains of care to lower earth enthral me,
Wherefore thus my weary spirit woo?
