171 



The mountains' great embrace enfolds me round, 



As when I entered first that holy ground. 



Have I not seen the genius of the place, 



Old Abel, patriarch of that giant-race? 



I see tliat grisly, grim old face once more, 



I hear his welcome at tlie old inn-door! 



That beetling brow — those stern and steady blinks — 



Had scared full many a catamount and lynx. 



I saw him and could well believe that he 



Had shaken down like apples from a tree 



The cubs, abandoned bv the old she-bear. 



That in their fright had sought a refuge there. 



To one who gazed on that old wrinkled face, — 



Where many a mountain-storm had left its trace, 



And age his crow's-foot tracks — seemed it not fit 



That this old Jotun of the hills should sit 



There, like a warder, at the mountain-door 



That leads to yon weird valley, grim and hoar. 



Whose blasted sides and rock-strewn bed had been 



The scene of many a giant-battle din, 



When, frighted by the elemental wrath, 



Bewildered Saco fled his wonted path. 



E'en as from that lone house, the inmates fled. 



Which else had saved them in that night of dread, 



Spared as it was, sole witness of the vale 



To tell the passer by the tragic tale. — 



Gone^ that memorial of a frightful fate — 



And gone that sentry at the mountain-gate. 



Gone all those giants of the elder days. 



Gone are the good old times and sloio old tcnys, 



When step by step the musing pilgrim wound 



His quiet way up through the holy ground, 



Found tongues in trees, songs in the running brooks, 



And wisdom's whispers in the wayside nooks ; 



Not, as to-day, by a steam-tempest hurled 



Into the bosom of the mountain-world ; 



At morn he sees the breakers with their white 



And gnashing teeth leap up the rocks — at night, 



Far inland hears, hundreds of miles from shore, 



The giant mountaiu-pine-woods' sea-like roar. 



«Not literally, but virtually, as it stands no longer in its sublime and affecting 

 eolitude. 



