near to break the reverie: look on those mountains of eternal snow,—the rose-tints linger on them, the white clouds roll below, and their peaks are sharply set upon a sky of the brightest, clearest, and deepest blue. The rushing wing of the black eagle—that "winged and cloud-cleaving minister, whose happy flight is highest into heaven,"—may be heard above. The golden eagle may be seen below, poised on his wing of might, or swooping over a precipice, while his keen eye pierces downward, seeking his prey, into the depths of the narrow valley between the mountains. The sweet notes of the Hill birds are around you; and the gay butterflies, enamoured of the wild flowers, hover over their blossoms.
Who may describe the solitary loveliness, the speaking quietude, that wraps these forest scenes? Who may tell how beautiful they are? Who that loves solitude does not enjoy the
" dewy morn, and od'rous noon, and even
With sunset, and its gorgeous ministers?"
Who can look unmoved on the coronets of snow that crown the eternal Himalaya? Who can gaze without delight on the aërial mountains that pour down the Ganga and Yamuna from their snow-formed caves?
"My altars are the mountains and the ocean,
Earth, air, stars,—all that springs from the great Whole,
Who hath produced and will receive the soul."
"I love snow, and all the forms
Of the radiant frost;
I love waves, and winds, and storms,
Every thing almost
Which is nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery."
There, indulge in solemn vision and bright silver dream, while "every sight and sound from the vast earth and ambient air" sends to your heart its choicest impulses: gaze on those rocks and pinnacles of snow, where never foot of common mortal trod, which the departing rose-tints leave in colder grandeur,
