| Show THE RS ap by orson F whitney midsummer morn on mountain vale and stream the generous sun bestows bestons a golden bearn beam crowning with glory glittering white helmed hills and darting life through all their thousand rills no sound disturbs the stillness of that scene so bare so bright so savage though serene save where the torrents distant voice is heard IN mingling JIngling with melody of bee and bird or minstrel cricket neath his drooping blade chirps cheerily a ceaseless serenade but list breaks on the ear a stranger sound startling weird echoes from the ranges round grim sentinels that warn what would intrude to mar the sway of kingly solitude now nearer borne upon the rising breeze the roll ot of rocks and crash of falling trees blend harsh at interval with human shout and grind of wheels along the rugged route so issuing from the canyons rough defile where frowns on either side a lofty pile A little band of mountaineers halt on the ridge whose milder summit rears the towering peaks and plains to intervene J and gaze with wonder on the glorious scene all ah marvel nothing if the eye may trace the care lines on each toll worn heros face nor yet if down his check in silent show A trickling tide of tender feeling flow tears not of weakness nor ot of sorrows mood As when hen air vanished joy sad memories brood far richer fount those tearless eyes bedewed they wept the golden drops of gratitude wi aa wherefore ask of the bleak and bitter wind witness of woe and peril left behind the city fair where widowed loneliness weeps her lost children in the wilderness the river broad along whose icy bridge their bleeding feet red hued each frozen ridge the burning plain the windswept wind swept prairies waves A path of pain a trail of nameless graves the wonderful world orld that watched to see them die 0 barren wilds beneath a brazen sky would een cen the coldest heart forbear to say good cause had gratitude to weep that day or censure for a flow of manly tears that brave band lin immortal mortal pioneers C 11 |