"The Maid of the Mountains" by John Rollin Ridge
As the wind like a lover she meets at the door,
And as sweet as the roses, as o'er them she trips,
That blush at revealments ne'er charmed them before,
Is the Maid of the Mountain, their pride and their boast;
Her face like the morning, her hair like the night,
Her eye like the eve-star that mellows our coast,
As tender in beauty, as strong in its light.
We met by the river, that maiden and I,
Which flows by yon snow-peaks engirdled with pines—
It was a rare meeting for no one was nigh,
And love had quite lost us mid blossom and vines.
I had but to murmur what well she believed—
Her answer came leaping to lips and to eyes,
And heart spoke to heart, as her white bosom heaved
With rapture that knoweth no language but sighs.
Around us and o'er us the humming bird flew,
As envious he were of her honey-dew kiss;
I whispered her and her lips the more grew
To mine own, rewarding praises with bliss.
Oh, Eden-like moments, how soon were they fled!
For sunlight no longer was lighting the stream;
But silver-winged twilight descended instead,
With mistiness vailed like an angel in dream.
She rose to depart (my angel), where I,
Accurs't by the Fates, was forbidden to go;
Sweet cot on the hillside, blessed river near by,
That mirrors no beauty like hers in its flow!
She rose to depart, and my heart was awake
To glory new-born in her steps as she went.
Her stately obeisance the lily did make,
And sweetest of blue-bells in reverence bent.
Ah, well might they worship a vision so bright,
No being on earth could they deem her to be,
But they have forgotten their passing delight,
While the pang of the parting still lingers with me.