Classic Poem

TO H. C. M.

What say you, comrade, to the rustling hills? —
Come — let us bid the prosy town farewell.
And catch the music of the jingling rills
Which burst their shattered shackles in the dell.

Ho! for the hopeful hill-tops — fresh and sweet:
The winds rush past the cedars' bronzed eaves;
Our woodland giants stand, with moss-clad feet
Deep-planted, on the slopes of russet leaves.

See now — the snow-flakes scud along the brae,
But sure the earth's deep pulse begins to bound;
A vision moves amidst the branches gray:
Some Spirit stirs within the anxious ground.

Great God! — how sickly seems the world's pretense,
Its pale polemics — false and flimsy forms;
One blast of Nature's fresh breath sweeps them hence:
Hail then — the healthful land of rushing storms!