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KEARSARGE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Oh, lift thy head, thou mountain lone
Last Line: The monarch of our mountain-land.
Alternate Author Name(s): Dean
Subject(s): Kearsarge (mountain), New Hampshire; New Hampshire


OH, lift thy head, thou mountain lone,
And mate thee with the sun!
Thy rosy clouds are valeward blown,
Thy stars that near at midnight shone
Gone heavenward one by one,
and half of earth, and half of air,
Thou risest vast, and gray, and bare,

And crowned with glory. Far southwest
Monadnock sinks to see, --
For all its trees and towering crest,
And clear Contoocook from its breast
Poured down for wood and lea, --
How statelier still, through frost and dew,
Thy granite cleaves the distant blue.

And high to north, from fainter sky,
Franconia's cliffs look down;
Home to their crags the eagles fly,
Deep in their caves the echoes die,
The sparkling waters frown,
And the Great Face that guards the glen
Pales with the pride of mortal men.

Nay, from their silent, crystal seat
The White Hills scan the plain;
Nor Saco's leaping, lightsome feet,
Nor Ammonoosuc wild to greet
The meadows and the main,
Nor snows nor thunders can atone
For splendor thou hast made thine own.

For thou hast joined the immortal band
Of hills and streams and plains,
Shrined in the songs of native land, --
Linked with the deeds of valor grand
Told when the bright day wanes, --
Part of the nation's life art thou,
O mountain of the granite brow!

Not Pelion when the Argo rose,
Grace of its goodliest trees;
Nor Norway hills when woodman's blows
Their pines sent crashing through the snows
That kings might rove the seas;
Nor heights that gave the Armada's line,
Thrilled with a joy as pure as thine.

Bold was the ship thy name that bore;
Strength of the hills was hers;
Heart of the oaks thy pastures store,
The pines that hear the north-wind roar,
The dark and tapering firs;
Nor Argonaut nor Viking knew
Sublimer daring than her crew.

And long as Freedom fires the soul
Or mountains pierce the air,
Her fame shall shine on honor's scroll;
Thy brow shall be the pilgrim's goal
Uplifted broad and fair;
And, from thy skies, inspiring gales
O'er future seas shall sweep our sails.

Still summer keep thy pastures green,
And clothe thy oaks and pines;
Brooks laugh thy rifted rocks between;
Snows fall serenely o'er the scene
And veil thy lofty lines;
While crowned and peerless thou dost stand,
The monarch of our mountain-land.





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