Poems (Proctor)/Kearsarge

by Edna Dean Proctor

For works with similar titles, see Kearsarge.

KEARSARGE.⁹

O 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 Amimonoosuc 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 woodmen'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 so 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.