While she, in meek humility,
Now earns her daily bread.
It is their prayers, which never cease,
That clothe her with such grace;
Their blessing is the light of peace
That shines upon her face.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Longmont, Colorado.
A SUNSET AT LONGMONT.
WE've journeyed through the mountains.
Broad-based, majestic in a grand repose,
Some three leagues westward. Longmont welcomes
And while we rest this balmy summer eve
At hospitable thresholds, all the sky,
As if to consecrate our holiday,
And make our precious memories more dear,
Puts on unwonted glory; and our eyes,
Like those of Moses in the mount, are smit
With sudden splendor. For the sinking sun,
Hidden, is not repressed, but pours its light
Upward and far aslant on flocks of cloud.
Along the clear horizon's narrow rim,
Down the great gulfs of everlasting rock,
O'er shining peaks, the distant Snowy Range, And Long's high crown, while all the nearer hills In tender shadow watch the miracle.
Spread to the right, and gleaming fold on fold,
Vermilion, saffron, pink, and pearly white,
The gorgeous banners of the clouds are flung,
Waving and tossing in resplendent surge,
Above yon belt of deep, delicious sky,
Whose liquid opal perfect, passionless,
Runs to a field of luminous emerald,
Broidered with marvellous fringe of crimson fire.
More southward, fleecy draperies touched with rose
Float on the air, and here and there droop low
Upon the shoulders of the purple peaks.
O'erhead the arrows of the hidden sun
Flash, now and then, on cliffs of ragged cloud;
And plumes of radiance, like strange tropic birds,
Flit through the open spaces of the blue.
High up amid the awful gaps of rock,
Between the ranges, a soft sea of bloom,
The lustrous pollen of this sunset-flower,
Throbs wave on wave against the granite shore.
Wondrous the billows of this golden mist,
Sweet, tender, lucent, as if purest dews
Of Paradise had washed the starry sheen
From heaven's choicest blossoms, and poured all
Into the porphyry basin of the mount,
A perfect incense to the unseen God.
Unasked we join the worship of the hour,
Breathless with indescribable applause.
The sacred spell of Beauty on us lies,
And power that dwells in Light's essential throne,
And Love in which all that is good is born.
The curtains of the glowing deep are drawn,
And through the vista, garlanded with gold,
O'er amethystine herbage, lawns of rose,
Pure streams where lilies of the angels blow,
Far toward the sightless glory of the Lord,
Our hearts are borne in measureless content,
Renewed and resting on the Infinite !
Lookout, the Mountain, Tenn.
ISTORIC mount! baptized in flame and blood,
Thy name is as immortal as the rocks
That crown thy thunder-scarred but royal brow.
Thou liftest up thy aged head in pride
In the cool atmosphere, but higher still
Within the calm and solemn atmosphere
Of an immortal fame. From thy sublime
And awful summit I can gaze afar
Upon innumerous lesser pinnacles,
And oh my wingéd spirit loves to fly,
Like a strong eagle, mid their up-piled crags.
But most on thee, imperial mount, my soul
Is chained as by a spell of power.
From this tall height on Chickamauga's field,
Where Death held erst high carnival. The waves
Of the mysterious death-river moaned;
The tramp, the shout, the fearful thunder-roar
Of red-breathed cannon, and the wailing cry
Of myriad victims, filled the air. The smoke
Of battle closed above the charging hosts,
And, when it passed, the grand old flag no more
Waved in the light of heaven. The soil was wet
And miry with the life-blood of the brave,
As with a drenching rain; and yon broad stream,
The noble and majestic Tennessee,
Ran reddened toward the deep.
And rocky mountain, wast the theatre
Of a yet fiercer struggle. On thy height,
Where now I sit, a proud and gallant host,
The chivalry and glory of the South,
Stood up awaiting battle. Sombre clouds,
Floating far, far beneath them, shut from view
The stern and silent foe, whose storied flag
Bore on its folds our country's monarch-bird,
Whose talons grasp the thunderbolt. Up, up
Thy rugged sides they came with measured tramp,
Unheralded by bugle, drum, or shout,
And, though the clouds closed round them with the
Of double night, they paused not in their march
Till sword and plume and bayonet emerged
Above the spectral shades that circled round
Thy awful breast. Then suddenly a storm
Of flame and lead and iron downward burst,
From this tall pinnacle, like winter hail.
Long, fierce, and bloody was the strife, ―alas!
The noble flag, our country's hope and pride,
Sank down beneath the surface of the clouds,
As sinks the pennon of a shipwrecked bark
Beneath a stormy sea, and naught was heard
Save the wild cries and moans of stricken men,
And the swift rush of fleeing warriors down
Thy rugged steeps.
But soon the trumpet-voice
Of the bold chieftain of the routed host
Resounded through the atmosphere, and pierced
The clouds that hung around thee.
He quickly summoned his brave soldiery back
To the renewal of the deadly fight;
Again their stern and measured tramp was heard
By the flushed Southrons, as it echoed up
Thy bald, majestic cliffs. Again they burst,
Like spirits of destruction, through the clouds,
And mid a thousand hurtling missiles swept
Their foes before them as the whirlwind sweeps
The strong oaks of the forest. Victory
Perched with her sister-eagle on the scorched
And torn and blackened banner.
The stains of blood have faded from thy rocks,
The cries of mortal agony have ceased
To echo from thy hollow cliffs, the smoke
Of battle long since melted into air,
And yet thou art unchanged. Aye thou wilt lift
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