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TO THE MOUNTAIN WINDS.
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Mountain winds! oh! is it, is it only
Where man's trace hath been that so we pine?
Bear me up, to grow in thought less lonely,
Even at nature's deepest, loneliest shrine!
Wild, and mighty, and mysterious singers!
At whose tone my heart within me burns;
Bear me where the last red sunbeam lingers,
Where the waters have their secret urns!
There to commune with a loftier spirit
Than the troubling shadows of regret;
There the wings of freedom to inherit,
Where the enduring and the wing'd are met.
Hush, proud voices! gentle be your falling!
Woman's lot thus chainless may not be;
Hush! the heart your trumpet sounds are calling,
Darkly still may grow—but never free!
