There is a proud, defiant mein,

Expressive, stern, and yet serene,

About the precipice;

Whose rugged form looks grimly down,

And answers, with an austere frown

The sunlight's kiss.

The mountain, with the snow bank crowned;

The gorge, abysmal and profound;

Impress with aspect grand:

With unfeigned reverence I see

In canon and declivity

The All-Wise Hand.

 

Think Not that the Heart is Devoid of Emotion. 

Think not that the heart is devoid of emotion,

Because of a countenance rugged and stern,

The bosom may hide the most fervent devotion,

As shadowy forests hide floweret and fern;

As the pearls which are down in the depths of the ocean,

The heart may have treasures which few can discern.

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