Among the Mountains.
MORNING.
I muse at dawn upon the heights alone.
A wakeful awe of silence reigns around;
The pines are hushed, no bird breathes any sound.
The mountains are a symphony, whose tone,
Piled in the expanse of memory, hath grown
Slow-reared; they seem to heave before mine eyes
From deep, dark glens, to clear auroral skies,
In billowy graduation, from the bowed
Low notes of dusky lowlands to the loud
Pæan of gratulation that is blown
Heavenward from awful summits fraught with morn,
One fiery snow! Upon the craggy surge,
Rude rocky village eyries are upborne
Over bleak umber plains; from verge to verge
The higher hills that neighbour them have worn
For ages the pine forest vast and grave;
Nature arises from Death's cold engulfing wave
