University of Virginia Library

Above the hills
Lit with the sun's bright flame;
Over the rills
Always and never the same;
Old as the old primeval heaven,
There is a home to him who finds it given,
Above the hills' sides, torrent-riven,
Above the valleys' shame.

Below, the winds lie crouch'd in their caves,
Like tigers ready for leaping;
The clouds look down on the mournful earth
And cannot stay from weeping;
The lightnings quiver, in bright wreaths curl'd,
Like fiery snakes half-sleeping;
But nothing of these wots that high world,
Blest quiet ever keeping.

Leave wife or child, leave wealth or fame,
But leave that region not;
So shall be all of shameful shame,
And trick of fate, forgot.
From thy soul, of thy sun's flame,
By valley-lust, no least ray be exiled;
That shall be thy wealth and fame
Shall be thy wife and child.

Though mine arm I made a girdle
About a maiden's waist;
Though for my mouth mine eyes their utmost wit
Of eloquence had often tried, that it
Her innocent kiss might taste;
Though look on look had, flowing, fix'd,
Souls utterly intermix'd,
Hearts' fibres interlaced,

And she said, if I forsook,
Life would forsake,
And well I knew that if I went
Her gentle heart would break;
Yet if she led me to the vale,
From my sun-track kept me,
That that high land might accept me,
I must let her face grow pale,
And leave her there,
Nor could repent, although around
Her comely head the shroud it drew, and bound
Dark cypress in her hair.

I have sworn an oath, and I will keep it,
As Allah doth me save,
Nor, by His help, once will I overleap it
Until I keep my grave;
Sworn that no pretext shall my soul seduce
To shear its brow of one fair lock of sun,
Nor will I down into those valleys run
By strong persuasion to false duty or use,
Of hundreds, or of one.

Yes, Messieurs, right well I hear you,—
Hear all your screamers say:—
‘The wealthy man rides through the people's blood
Their bodies pave his way.
Will you not stimulate a sinking nation
To lift its voice aloud
For the swift riddance of that usurpation
Of few over the crowd?’
What! shall I praise the just and equal boat
Where crew, not captain, rules?
Or risk the State on hazard of the vote
Of all its common fools?
I will not tell that barefaced lie again,
That all are fashioned equal,
Nor say their politics to these blind men
Will bring the wish'd-for sequel.
I am no Radical,
Nor am I Whig or Tory;
I am a lover of the Mount,
And of its wisdom hoary.

But why not join the wiser few who find
‘A hungry people’ ever ‘creeping nigher,’
Like ‘lion’ glaring in its bestial ire
‘At one that nods and winks behind
A slowly-dying fire’?
In truth, methinks I see a grand new day
About to pour through the sun's burning lens;
And day, when it arrives, must fright away
All night-beasts to their dens.
Already is it dawning; and this day
Has virtues to all previous days unknown,
For even now the lion slinks away
To a new den of his own;
That den already larger, cleaner grows;
To a fresh type it fast approximates,
With maps upon the walls, and desks in rows,
And forms, and books, and slates.
So why not trust the lion? Sharp the claws,
And fierce the teeth have been, and rough the hide;
Trust him, and see how soon kind Nature's laws
Improvements will provide;
Make the fangs soften and fall,
And new milk-teeth install;
Make claws grow thin and small,
And for knife and scissors call;
Make the rough hair be cast,
And leave clean skin at last;
Make the frame change its plan,
The brain enlarge and strengthen,
The heart grow soft and mild,
The lower members lengthen,
And the beast stand up a mighty man
And harmless as a child.
Dreams, say you? Well, 'tis Allah's own affair
Democracy's His stream. We have to swim,
Or float, in what He sends us everywhere;
Let us be glad that, after all, the care
And onus are on Him.
I am no Radical,
Nor am I Whig or Tory;
I am a lover of the Mount,
And of its wisdom hoary.

Good sisters, urge me not. I see the tears
Those little children shed;
The bitter cry sounds sadly in mine ears
From many a lingering bed;
Heavenward I see the hungry turn their faces,
And still they are not fed;
And mothers with yet ignorant embraces
Embrace their children dead.
Believe me, you than I are not more eager
To help mankind and save:—
Go ye, rescue those forms, so shrunk and meagre,
From the wide-wasting grave:
But neither do I waste a life in dreaming
Because I seem not to be helping you;
I can be doing far, far more, while seeming
Far less, or naught, to do.
For on my Mountain one short hour
Plucking a fruit, culling a flower,
Must ever in the end
More blessing lend
Mankind,
Than long years spent below,
Wiping the tears that flow,
Loosing the chains that bind.

I have sworn an oath, and I will keep it,
As Allah doth me save,
Nor, by His help, once will I overleap it
Until I keep my grave;
Sworn that no cold derisive smiling
Of foe, nor prayer of friend,
Nor loss of fame and honour, nor reviling,
Shall ever me my soul make lend
To what would cramp its wider aim,
Or maim
Its universal end.
High o'er the hills I'd live; out from my heart
I cannot bear to thrust one beam divine;
Choose you, then, for yourselves, your lot and part,
And I have chosen mine.