Classic Poem

Soft ridge of cloud or mountain! which thou art
I know not well; so delicately fine
Swells to mine eye the undulating line,
Where gazing to and fro, as loth to part,
Unwearied Fancy plies her busy art,
To trace what lurks in those deep folds of thine,
Streak'd by the varying heavens with hues divine.
With me 'tis fancy all; but many a heart
Perchance e'en now perusing thee afar
The meaning reads of every spot and wave
That seems to stain thee, or thine outline mar.
Here is their home, and here their father's grave.
Such is our holy Mount; all dream it fair,
Those only know, whom Faith hath nurtured there.