Classic Poem

Across Cacapon's barren back,
Beneath the scudding cloudland rack,
Silent, beside the mountaineer,
I rode along the rugged track.

Below us lay the valley bright,
Far reaching to the left and right,
Of varying width: a buttressed wall
Gave mete and bound to forward sight.

The isles of grass seemed emeralds set
In some forgotten coronet;
And through the midst, a shining band,
Wound in and out a rivulet.

Two homes appeared: one, white and far,
Shone in the sunbeams like a star;
The other bore in blackened walls
The dreadful signature of War.

And who could fail to understand
That we were traversing the land
Of tales that deal with stirring themes
And vague traditions weird and grand?

So, as I rode, my thoughts took range
With the wild sweep of fancies strange
In his quaint, marvellous recital,
Which I repeat with little change.

Long, long ago, — I know not when, —
There sought these mountains foreign men.
But whence they came I cannot say,
Nor whether they returned again.

Theirs was a speech no mortal knew.
They dealt with none, — their wants were few, —
And little of their work was wrought
Between the sunrise and the dew.

But often the belated wight
Saw in the dark their fires alight,
And, creeping near, could plainly view
The high-piled ingots clean and bright.

And, wondrous in their garb and hair,
With flowing beards and brown arms bare,
He watched the frantic artisans
Who toiled and sang in chorus there.

And at that chorus swelling wide
Shivered the bridegroom and the bride,
And infants miles away would cling
More tightly to the mother's side.

One day they vanished from the glen
Which long had been their wizard den,
And every vestige of their stay
Had passed at once from mortal ken.

The ravaged bosom of the hills
Was clad with grass and bright with rills.
The blackened woods were green again,
And musical with wild-bird trills.

Then, tempted by that wondrous store
Of gleaming blocks and shapeless ore,
Strong men assailed the mighty hills
To wrest by force the prize of lore.

But bootless were their toil and pains:
The fruitful mountain's ruddy veins
And silver ducts those miners weird
Had drained as never mortal drains.

But after many a day and year
A hunter paused that spot anear,
And, gazing through the evergreens,
He stood as one in sudden fear.

For there a tablet he beheld
Quaint wrought with characters of eld,
Unholy marks, black, straggling signs.
He strove and strove, — but nothing spelled.

He stooped, and seized the door-like stone,
And wrenched to burst the force unknown
Which held it clinging to the breast
Of that strange mountain grim and lone.

But fruitless was his frantic strain,
Though the hot sweat-drops fell like rain,
Until, like one in mortal fear,
He turned him round and fled amain.

And never afterward could he
Again that wondrous tablet see,
Though far around a zealous band
Searched mountain-side and greenery.

Years came and went. A herdsman sought
His cattle near the self-same spot,
And came upon the carven stone,
And seized and strove — and conquered not.

But one who would not conquered be,
Himself a son of sorcery,
Had sworn to try the Obi skill
Of sunbrown lands beyond the sea.

He found the tablet when the glare
Of lightning filled the outer air,
And through the rifted pines the wind
Went by with voices of despair.

What magic broke the stubborn spell
I know not, — only this befell:
The stone from off the nether chasm
Rose like a curb-lid from a well.

He clutched it by the tilting side,
And peered with eyeballs staring wide;
But never mortal man could learn
What that brief scrutiny descried.

The mountain shook with sudden throes;
From glen and cavern groans arose,
And, headlong hurled through brake and brier,
He felt the strokes of viewless foes.

And so our mountains yield to-day
Nor gold nor silver, though they say
That still the treasure hidden lies,
And one dark ghost could point the way.