"Ah, what indeed is this Old land beyond the seas, that ye should miss For her the grace and majesty of mine? Are not the fruit and vine Fair on my hills, and in my vales the rose? The palm-tree and the pine Strike hands together under the same skies In every wind that blows. What clearer heavens can shine Above the land whereon the shadow lies Of her dead glory, and her slaughtered kings, And lost, evanished gods? Upon my fresh green sods No king has walked to curse and desolate: But in the valleys Freedom sits and sings, And on the heights above; Upon her brows the leaves of olive boughs, And in her arms a dove; And the great hills are pure, undesecrate, White with their snows untrod, And mighty with the presence of their God! "Hearken, how many years I sat alone, I sat alone and heard Only the silence stirred By wind and leaf, by clash of grassy spears, And singing bird that called to singing bird. Heard but the savage tongue Of my brown savage children, that among The hills and valleys chased the buck and doe, And round the wigwam fires Chanted wild songs of their wild savage sires, And danced their wild, weird dances to and fro, And wrought their beaded robes of buffalo. Day following upon day, Saw but the panther crouched upon the limb, Smooth serpents, swift and slim, Slip through the reeds and grasses, and the bear Crush through his tangled lair Of chaparral, upon the startled prey! "Listen, how I have seen Flash of strange fires in gorge and black ravine; Heard the sharp clang of steel, that came to drain The mountain's golden vein-- And laughed and sang, and sang and laughed again, Because that 'now,' I said, 'I shall be known! I shall not sit alone; But reach my hands unto my sister lands! And they? Will they not turn Old, wondering dim eyes to me, and yearn-- Aye, they will yearn, in sooth, To my glad beauty, and my glad fresh youth!' "What matters though the morn Redden upon my singing fields of corn! What matters though the wind's unresting feet Ripple the gold of wheat, And my vales run with wine, And on these hills of mine The orchard boughs droop heavy with ripe fruit? When with nor sound of lute Nor lyre, doth any singer chant and sing Me, in my life's fair spring: The matin song of me in my young day? But all my lays and legends fade away From lake and mountain to the farther hem Of sea, and there be none to gather them.