Poems by John Howard Bryant

Our home is on the mountains,
Where the pure winds ever flow,
Where torrents, bursting from the rocks,
Haste to the vales below.
We climb the high and rugged cliff
Before the blush of dawn,
And thread the path along the dells,
Where hides the chamois fawn.
All day we toil, till daylight fades
Along the ruddy west,
And then we light our watchfires,
Above the eagle's nest.

II.

O! 'tis a fearful pleasure
On dizzy heights to stand;
To tread the long and narrow pass,
Scarce broader than your hand;
To hang upon the bare rock's side,
Wide rolling woods below,
Where in their beds the rushing streams
Are hardly heard to flow.

We climb the glacier's slippery steep,
And, with a wild delight,
We leap the frightful chasm,
Whose depths are black as night.

III.

And terrible the tempest
That comes at midnight there,
When lightnings fire the tossing clouds
And all the upper air;
And awful is the thunder's voice,
When falls the knotted oak,
And rocks upon the icy peaks
Are shivered by the stroke.
The blood runs chill as onward sweep
The tempest and the flood,
And the whirlwind strong and mighty,
Uproots the ancient wood.

IV.

How glorious is the morning
That gilds the mountain's breast,
When stillness wraps the crimson sky,
And earth is all at rest;

When o'er the peaceful vales below
The mists in white waves sleep,
Far stretching to the gazer's eye
An ocean wide and deep:
And passing lovely is the hour
That brings the close of day,
When hues of living splendor
Grow soft and fade away.

V.

Sweet, sweet is our returning
When the hunting days are done,
When down we haste from cliff to cliff,
With the spoil our hands have won;
We spy our cottage in the vale,
Where peace and gladness are,
Our children cheer us on the rocks,
And beckon from afar;
Their bosoms thrill with wild delight
As down the steep we come,
And joyful is the meeting
When we are safe at home.

VI.

O! idle were a being
Within the city's walls,

And cold to us their worship seems
Who pray in gilded halls;
The earth's wild liberty is ours,
Where'er the winds may blow,
These vales so quiet and so green,
These mountains clad with snow;
Our temple is the wide blue sky,
Our anthems are the deep
And solemn voice of night winds
That through the forests sweep.

University of Virginia Library

SONG OF THE CHAMOIS HUNTERS.

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