MOOSIL'AUK! mountain sagamore! thy brow The wide hill-splendor circles. Not a peer, Among New Hampshire's lordly heights that fear Nor summer's bolt nor winter's blast, hast thou For grand horizons. Lo, to westward now Towers Whiteface over Killington; and clear, To north, Mount Royal cleaves the blue; while near, Franconia's, Conway's peaks the east endow With glory, round great Washington whose cone Of sunset shade, athwart his valleys thrown, Darkens and stills a hundred miles of Maine! To south the bright Lake smiles, and rivers flow Through elm-fringed meadows to the ocean plain — Lone peak! what realms are thine, above, below! |