It is the mountains! Grand and calm
As God upon his awful throne,
They build you strength and breathe you balm,
For all their templed might of stone
Is one eternal sculptured psalm!
And now your western course is led
Where grassy pampas spread and spread,
The pastures of the buffalo;
And like the sudden lash of foam
When tropic tempests smite the sea,
And masts are stripped to ward the blow,
A ragged whirl of dust descried
Upon the prairie's sloping side
Portends a storm as swift and free,—
And lo, the herds, they come! they come!
A sweeping thundercloud of life
Loud as Niagara, and grand
As they who rode with plume and brand
On Waterloo's red slope of strife;
Wild as the rush of tidal waves
That roar among their crags and caves,
The trampling bison hurl along,
A black and bounding, fiery mass
That withers, as with flame, the grass—
O! terrible—ten thousand strong!
Meanwhile the dusty teams are stopped,
The wagon tongues are deftly propped,
And drivers by their oxen stand
And soothe them with soft speech and hand,
But, yet, with horn tossed free, and eyes
Ablaze with purple depths of ire,
As God upon his awful throne,
They build you strength and breathe you balm,
For all their templed might of stone
Is one eternal sculptured psalm!
And now your western course is led
Where grassy pampas spread and spread,
The pastures of the buffalo;
And like the sudden lash of foam
When tropic tempests smite the sea,
And masts are stripped to ward the blow,
A ragged whirl of dust descried
Upon the prairie's sloping side
Portends a storm as swift and free,—
And lo, the herds, they come! they come!
A sweeping thundercloud of life
Loud as Niagara, and grand
As they who rode with plume and brand
On Waterloo's red slope of strife;
Wild as the rush of tidal waves
That roar among their crags and caves,
The trampling bison hurl along,
A black and bounding, fiery mass
That withers, as with flame, the grass—
O! terrible—ten thousand strong!
Meanwhile the dusty teams are stopped,
The wagon tongues are deftly propped,
And drivers by their oxen stand
And soothe them with soft speech and hand,
But, yet, with horn tossed free, and eyes
Ablaze with purple depths of ire,
