Hills Of Maine
By Annie Silpha Marshall Plummer
Lofty, cloud-capped, rock-bound mountains,
Bold ye tower in grandeur high,
Till your bristling pine-tree summits
Seem to reach the cloud-flecked sky,
Seasons change from sun to shadow,
And blossoms bud and fade again,
But these bulwarks stand forever,
They will always last the same.
How sublime, how full of wonder
Seem the marble piles of art,
Yet in nature how much greater;
All her works feed soul and heart.
Hills and vales I love you fondly;
Love the sound of every name,
That each granite dome is christened,
In the dear old State of Maine.
Eloquent teachers are the mountains;
What sermons preach they every day,
And we need no written logic
To decipher what they say.
Grand, majestic, testifying
In each rock and grain of sand,
That like God they are everlasting,
Built and fashioned by His hand.
And the music of their brooklets,
Rippling o’er low beds of green,
Brings a soothing charm and restful,
Like none other heard, I ween.
Fond I cherish and revere you,
For, linked firm in memory’s chain,
Are the glens and deep dense wildwoods
Of the dear old State of Maine.
Resting in their quiet beauty,
See the silvery lakelets blue,
Mirroring on their crystal bosoms
Your tall peaks, each form and hue;
And I reach, I long to clasp you,
See your faces once again,
Rearing high your heads so hoary;
O ye grand old hills of Maine.
I can see you when in autumn,
Gauzy veils of haze seem swung
O’er your scarred and rough-hewn boulders,
Till the hills and sky seem one;
And the tinted bow of promise
Would seem faded now and pale,
Seen beside the gorgeous colors,
Painted over hill and vale.
I can see you when the sunset
Sheds a golden glory ’round,
And amidst the twilight shadows,
Reigns a stillness, deep, profound;
Till your forms so kingly, regal,
Stand like battlements on high,
Fit to be a nation’s strong-hold;
“God’s free hills!” the battle cry.
When life’s last sunset is fading,
And the mists are gray and cold,
Leave me where those cloud-wreathed mountains
May their shadows round me fold;
And, methinks, from out the silence
I could hear the sweet refrain
Of the pine-tree’s low, sweet sighing
From the dear old hills of Maine.