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Each blissful yesterday still lives to-day, 

 "A thing of beauty is a joy for aye." 



And so, through all the rush and whirl of years, 

 The tranquil picture ever reappears 

 Through Breton woods in August afternoons, 

 The crags are hung with raspberry festoons 

 The Ammonoosuck, as we stroll along, 

 A fourth companion, murmurs sweetest song 

 In evening's glow far over Bethlehem's plain 

 Looks a farewell that glorious mountain train. 



O what a chain of loveliest landscapes lie 

 Visioned in memory's calm unfading sky ! 

 Forevermore through her mysterious glass 

 Franconia's green and graceful arches pass ; 

 Far through, the mountain walls on either side, 

 A soft, aerial apparition glide. 

 That strange stone face, so weird and yet serene, 

 Looks off into the sky with mystic mien ; 

 Deep in the woods, hid from intrusive eyes, 

 The Silver Lake in virgin beauty lies, 

 A liquid mirror, set in frame of green, 

 O'er which the softly sighing birches lean. 

 And there, in beauty, the Great Spirit smiles 

 On the bright lake of the three hundred isles. 

 But above all these charms I feel the thrill 

 Of that mute mountain-salutation still ; 

 And standing at their feet once more would fain 

 Lift to the ancient hills a grateful strain. 



Alps of New England ! I salute once more 

 Your august foreheads, as in days of yore : 

 Once more with youthful ecstacy I stand 

 Beneath your spell, within this wonder-land : 

 Once more with child- like awe I rest my eyes 

 Where your bare brows salute the upper skies ; 

 Once more with child-like love and joy I greet 

 The murmuring streams that cling around your feet. 

 My heart bounds up to meet the cascade's leap 

 From crag to crag adown the dizzy steep : 

 Up to the mountain-top I lift my eye, 

 Where, like a silver thread, it hangs on high, 

 Anon, a shining snake, I see it glide, 

 Sinuous and swift o'er the green mountain's side ; 



