The strong uplifter of the wilderness, Holder of mighty silence voiceful made, With bird-song drifting from the spruces’ shade, By quivering winds that murmur in distress, Proud stands my mountain, clothed with loneliness That awesome grows when darkness veileth all And south wind shroudeth with a misty pall Of hurrying clouds that ever onward press, As something seeking that doth e’er elude, Flying like thing pursued that dare not rest, By some wild, haunting thought of fear possessed—— Not drearness all, the cloud-swept solitude:—— Through changing rifts the starlit blue gives sign Of mountain nearness unto things divine. IV.—DAWN. Slow breaks the daily mystery of dawn—— In far-off skies gleams faint the unfolding light, Anear the patient hills wait with the night Whose shadow clings, nor hasteth to be gone. A passionate silence filleth all the earth—— No wind-swept pine to solemn anthem stirred, No distant chirp from matin-keeping bird, Nor any pattering sound of leafy mirth. And seems that waiting silence to enfold All mystery of life, all doubt and fear, All patient trusting through the darkness here, All perfect promise that the heavens hold. Lo! seems my mountain a high-altar stair Whereon I rest, in thought half-dream, half-prayer. V.—ON FIRE. Scarce dead the echo of our evening song That o’er the camp-fire’s whirling blaze up-soared With wealth of hidden human sweetness stored— Life-thoughts that thronged the spoken words along; Scarce lost our lingering footsteps on the moss, When the slow embers, that we fancied slept, With purpose sure and step unfaltering crept The sheltering mountain’s unsmirched brow across. Alas! for straining eyes that through long days Of strong-breathed west wind saw the pale smoke-drift Its threat’ning pennons in the distance lift, So setting discord in sweet notes of praise. Yet hath the wounded mountain in each thought Won dearer love for wrong, unwilling, wrought. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ ROC AMADOUR. La douce Mère du Créatour, A l’église, à Rochemadour, Fait tants miracles, tants hauts faits, C’uns moultes biax livres en est faits. —_Gauthier de Coinsy, of the thirteenth century._