THE MOUNTAIN MAID.
O the Mountain Maid, New Hampshire!
Her steps are light and free
Whether she treads the lofty heights
Or follows the brooks to the sea!
Her eyes are clear as the skies that hang
Over her hills of snow,
And her hair is dark as the densest shade
That falls where the fir-trees grow—
The fir-trees slender and sombre
That climb from the vales below.
Her steps are light and free
Whether she treads the lofty heights
Or follows the brooks to the sea!
Her eyes are clear as the skies that hang
Over her hills of snow,
And her hair is dark as the densest shade
That falls where the fir-trees grow—
The fir-trees slender and sombre
That climb from the vales below.
Sweet is her voice as the robin's
In a lull of the wind of March
Wooing the shy arbutus
At the roots of the budding larch;
And rich as the ravishing echoes
On still Franconia's lake
When the boatman winds his magic horn
And the tongues of the wood awake,
While the huge Stone-Face forgets to frown
And the hare peeps out of the brake.
In a lull of the wind of March
Wooing the shy arbutus
At the roots of the budding larch;
And rich as the ravishing echoes
On still Franconia's lake
When the boatman winds his magic horn
And the tongues of the wood awake,
While the huge Stone-Face forgets to frown
And the hare peeps out of the brake.
The blasts of stormy December
But brighten the bloom on her cheek,
And the snows build her statelier temples
Than to goddess were reared by the Greek.
But brighten the bloom on her cheek,
And the snows build her statelier temples
Than to goddess were reared by the Greek.
