 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
[Yes! brightly does the sunlight fall]
[_]
The Indians supposed the White Mountains to be the residence of supernatural beings, and therefore never ventured to ascend them. This curious tradition is preserved in Josselyn's New England.
Yes! brightly does the sunlight fall
On yonder mountain's naked brow—
Its splintered peaks and columns tall,
Are touched with morning's earliest glow.
There's music in the leafy shroud
That wraps in green its giant form,
There's rainbow glories in the cloud
That wreaths around its summit proud,
Dim relic of the recent storm.
On yonder mountain's naked brow—
Its splintered peaks and columns tall,
Are touched with morning's earliest glow.
There's music in the leafy shroud
That wraps in green its giant form,
There's rainbow glories in the cloud
That wreaths around its summit proud,
Dim relic of the recent storm.
Far down the cliffs, by tempest riven,
The chainless mountain streams are rolled,
Freed from the gloom which night had given,
Their flashing waves are touched with gold.
My son—I see thine eagle eye
Is fixed upon the gorgeous scene—
I see thou hast aspirings high,
To climb yon pillars of the sky,
Where mortal foot hath never been.
The chainless mountain streams are rolled,
Freed from the gloom which night had given,
Their flashing waves are touched with gold.
My son—I see thine eagle eye
Is fixed upon the gorgeous scene—
I see thou hast aspirings high,
To climb yon pillars of the sky,
Where mortal foot hath never been.
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But go thou not—thy pathway there,
Is fraught with dark and nameless ills;
The dreadless spirits of the air
The demons of the clouded hills
There hold communion. When in wrath,
The tempest stoops o'er yon grey peaks,
Their dark forms shade the lightning's path,
And mid the whirlwind blast of death,
Is heard their wild, unearthly shrieks.
Is fraught with dark and nameless ills;
The dreadless spirits of the air
The demons of the clouded hills
There hold communion. When in wrath,
The tempest stoops o'er yon grey peaks,
Their dark forms shade the lightning's path,
And mid the whirlwind blast of death,
Is heard their wild, unearthly shrieks.
O! I could tell to thee a tale,
My gallant sires have often told,
When bending downwards to the vale,
The clouds of coming tempest rolled
From those veiled heights. 'Twas of a young
And dauntless chief, who ne'er had turned
From where the sound of conflict rung
Where knives were drawn, and bows were strong,
His fiery soul with rapture burned.
My gallant sires have often told,
When bending downwards to the vale,
The clouds of coming tempest rolled
From those veiled heights. 'Twas of a young
And dauntless chief, who ne'er had turned
From where the sound of conflict rung
Where knives were drawn, and bows were strong,
His fiery soul with rapture burned.
It was a glorious hour like this—
The sun had flung his veil aside,
And lightened with his mounting kiss
The hoary mountain's brows of pride
The chieftain saw the night shades roll
From off the crags and melt away,
And then a mighty purpose stole
Upon his proud, unconquered soul,
And none his stern resolve could stay.
The sun had flung his veil aside,
And lightened with his mounting kiss
The hoary mountain's brows of pride
The chieftain saw the night shades roll
From off the crags and melt away,
And then a mighty purpose stole
Upon his proud, unconquered soul,
And none his stern resolve could stay.
“I'll seek,” he cried, “that frowning steep,
I'll meet the demons of the air—
Let coward souls from danger keep,
'Tis mine to snatch new triumphs there!”
The ancients of our tribe were near,
They sought to check his youthful pride—
They hold him many a tale of fear,
Of spectral hand and shadowy spear,
Seen dimly on the mountain's side.
I'll meet the demons of the air—
Let coward souls from danger keep,
'Tis mine to snatch new triumphs there!”
The ancients of our tribe were near,
They sought to check his youthful pride—
They hold him many a tale of fear,
Of spectral hand and shadowy spear,
Seen dimly on the mountain's side.
He scorned them all—he grasped his spear
As one whose purpose none might stay—
He called his brethren, slaves to fear,
And proudly took his daring way,
Up the dark heights, whose forest veiled
His form from many an anxious eye.
Three times the light of morning hailed
Those rugged peaks by man unscaled,
And thrice the sunset streaked the sky.
As one whose purpose none might stay—
He called his brethren, slaves to fear,
And proudly took his daring way,
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His form from many an anxious eye.
Three times the light of morning hailed
Those rugged peaks by man unscaled,
And thrice the sunset streaked the sky.
Then when the light of day had passed,
Clouds gathered on the mountain's brow—
Deep thunders rolled, and fierce and fast
The lightning flung its lurid glow,
Breaking the mountain's solitude
Was heard full many a fearful cry—
And spectral forms in darkness stood
Above the rushing mountain flood,
And waved their shadowy arms on high.
Clouds gathered on the mountain's brow—
Deep thunders rolled, and fierce and fast
The lightning flung its lurid glow,
Breaking the mountain's solitude
Was heard full many a fearful cry—
And spectral forms in darkness stood
Above the rushing mountain flood,
And waved their shadowy arms on high.
The storm retired—the sunlight fell
In beauty on the hills again,
Where not a trace was left to tell
Of desolation's midnight reign.
But he—the youthful chieftain came
To view his anxious friends no more—
And oh! a blight passed o'er his fame,
And none dared whisper of the name
They hailed so joyously before.
In beauty on the hills again,
Where not a trace was left to tell
Of desolation's midnight reign.
But he—the youthful chieftain came
To view his anxious friends no more—
And oh! a blight passed o'er his fame,
And none dared whisper of the name
They hailed so joyously before.
His was an effort all too stern,
Too fraught with ills for man to try—
And hence, my son, I bade thee turn
From yon grey peaks thy kindling eye.
When music from their woods is heard,
When light clouds o'er their summits come,
Think on the fate of him who dared
The voice of age to disregard,
And seek thou not the spirits' home.
Too fraught with ills for man to try—
And hence, my son, I bade thee turn
From yon grey peaks thy kindling eye.
When music from their woods is heard,
When light clouds o'er their summits come,
Think on the fate of him who dared
The voice of age to disregard,
And seek thou not the spirits' home.
Haverhill Gazette, July 28, 1827
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