Aloft in naked grandeur towered
The Vast Cathedral of the Hills,
High peaks that would have quelled the coward
To look upon their pinnacles.
Sheer over all, with awful front.
Not yet baptized in brave sweat-drops
Of its High Priest, the “Peak Fremont"
Looked down on all the mountain-tops.
Far up, its skeleton white hand,
In glitter of eternal snow,
Caught the young Morning's flaring brand,
And flung it to the hills below.
In the keen quivering of the light,
Might seem its rigid arm to wave,
Repellant in the weak heart's sight,
But beckoning up the strong and brave.
Ten thousand years of flood and fire.
Of earthquake and of hurricane,
That fleshiess Arm, no time could tire,
Had beckoned for its Man in vain.
Sometimes the Indian's fiery eye
Far off, its morning signal saw.
But strange, weird voices in the sky.
Low muttering, turned him back in awe !
The Builders of the mighty Mounds,
Who laid those fingers on the lips
Of their Land's Secret, heard the sounds,
And saw that towering fiend eclipse
The downward Sun, their glorious God,
Ages before — and flying far,
Piled for his grave the wintry sod.
And died beneath their fatal star.
Ten thousand years of mellowing change,
Of rain, and sun, and greening grass,
Of eagle-flight, and wild beast's range,
That towering Peak had seen to pass;
But waved its fleshless arm in vain.
For ages, since the world began ;
Till now, in Freedom's latest reign,
The unwearying Call has found its Man!
Aloft with Freedom's meteor flag —
In hands like his redeemed from shame—
He scales the mountain's dizzying crag.
Clinging and climbing like a flame!
Right up! a thousand feet below,
The deep lake glitters like a star,
Up! through the everlasting snow,
Beyond the storm-line's icy scar.
Up! where the eagle scarce could stand!
Till his unerring foot has trod
The loftiest cliff that heaves its hand
Between its mountain-throne and God.
Beneath his foot the thin spire quakes,
Like a tall cedar in the blast!
'Tis the old Mountain's hand that shakes
The welcome Hero's hand at last!
Sheer down, a hundred fathoms dread,
On the broad shoulders of the Cliff,
He sees the royal ermine spread,
Like some proud Sultan's, jewel-stiff;
And round their awful Monarch's knees,
The mountain Peers, with all their woods,
And far, on either hand, he sees
The Cradle of the mighty Floods.
Like a wild meteor in the sky,
Outgleams the banner of his land,
As with a loud, exulting cry,
He gives it to that fleshless Hand!
A symbol on the eternal hills.
That all below them should be free,
As that free-mountain shout, that thrills
Down all the slopes to either sea!
Fremont Peak