A Mountain Nocturne

In forest shade my couch is made. And there I calmly lie, With thought confined in pensive mind, And contemplate the sky; I wonder if the frowning cliff, The valley and the wood, Or rugged freaks of mountain peaks, Enjoy their solitude.

The heavens hold a sphere of gold, A full and placid moon, Suspended high, in cloudless sky, With constellations strewn; Its mellow beam, on rill and stream, In silvery sheen I see; Before its light, the shades of night As evil spirits, flee.

In space afar, a shooting star, With swift, uncertain course, In dazzling sparks its passage marks, As it expends its force; The mountains bare reflect its glare Of weird, unearthly light, And e'en the skies, in glad surprise, Behold its gorgeous flight.

The spruce and pine, at timber-line, In straggling patches strewn, Surcharge the breeze with melodies, The forests' plaintive tune; As they descend, the waters blend In babbling harmony, And soothe to rest my tranquil breast, With Nature's lullaby.

BRIDAL VEIL FALLS, NEAR TELLURIDE, SAN MIGUEL COUNTY, COLORADO.]

The Spirit of freedom is Born of the Mountains.

The spirit of freedom is born of the mountains, In gorge and in cañon it hovers and dwells; Pervading the torrents and crystalline fountains, Which dash through the valleys and forest clad dells.

The spirit of freedom, so firm and impliant, Is borne on the breeze, whose invisible waves Descend from the mountain peaks, stern and defiant-- Created for freemen, but never for slaves.

The Valley of the San Miguel.

In the golden West, by fond Nature blest, Lies a vale which my heart holds dear; Where the zephyr blows from eternal snows And tempers the atmosphere; Where the torrent falls o'er the mountain walls, As its thunderous echoes thrill, Where the sparkling mist, by the rainbow kissed, Decks the Valley of San Miguel[B].

Where the birds of spring, in their season sing, Their spontaneous melodies; Where the columbine and the stately pine Stand quivering in the breeze; Where the aspen tall hugs the trachyte wall, And the wild rose bedecks the hill; Where the willows weep, and their vigils keep, On the banks of the San Miguel.

Where the mountains high, cleave the azure sky, With their turrets so bleak and gray; Where the morning light crowns the dizzy height, At the break of the summer's day; Where the crags look down with an austere frown, O'er the valley so calm and still; Where the mesas blue, blend their dreamy hue With the skies of the San Miguel.

Where the mountains hold a vast wealth of gold, In the quartz ledge and placer bar; Where the hills resound with the constant sound Of the stamp mill's battering jar; Where the waters dash with the rhythmic splash Of the cascade and mountain rill, As they laugh and flow to the lands below, Through the turbulent San Miguel.

Where the shadows glide, in the eventide, As the sun, to nocturnal rest, With the dazzling rays of a world ablaze, Sinks into the distant west; When the yellow leaf of existence brief, Brings the hour when the pulse is still, May my ashes rest in the golden West, On the banks of the San Miguel.

"Where the mountains high, cleave the azure sky, With their turrets so bleak and gray."