Mount Shasta

- 1827-1867

     Behold the dread Mt. Shasta, where it stands
Imperial midst the lesser heights, and, like
Some mighty unimpassioned mind, companionless
And cold. The storms of Heaven may beat in wrath
Against it, but it stands in unpolluted
Grandeur still; and from the rolling mists upheaves
Its tower of pride e’en purer than before.
The wintry showers and white-winged tempests leave
Their frozen tributes on its brow, and it
Doth make of them an everlasting crown.
Thus doth it, day by day and age by age,
Defy each stroke of time: still rising highest
Into Heaven!

     Aspiring to the eagle’s cloudless height,
No human foot has stained its snowy side;
No human breath has dimmed the icy mirror which
It holds unto the moon and stars and sov’reign sun.
We may not grow familiar with the secrets
Of its hoary top, whereon the Genius
Of that mountain builds his glorious throne!
Far lifted in the boundless blue, he doth
Encircle, with his gaze supreme, the broad
Dominions of the West, which lie beneath
His feet, in pictures of sublime repose
No artist ever drew. He sees the tall
Gigantic hills arise in silentness
And peace, and in the long review of distance
Range themselves in order grand. He sees the sunlight
Play upon the golden streams which through the valleys
Glide. He hears the music of the great and solemn sea,
And overlooks the huge old western wall
To view the birth-place of undying Melody!

     Itself all light, save when some loftiest cloud
Doth for a while embrace its cold forbidding
Form, that monarch mountain casts its mighty
Shadow down upon the crownless peaks below,
That, like inferior minds to some great
Spirit, stand in strong contrasted littleness!
All through the long and Summery months of our
Most tranquil year, it points its icy shaft
On high, to catch the dazzling beams that fall
In showers of splendor round that crystal cone,
And roll in floods of far magnificence
Away from that lone, vast Reflector in
The dome of Heaven.
Still watchful of the fertile
Vale and undulating plains below, the grass
Grows greener in its shade, and sweeter bloom
The flowers. Strong purifier! From its snowy
Side the breezes cool are wafted to the “peaceful
Homes of men,” who shelter at its feet, and love
To gaze upon its honored form, aye standing
There the guarantee of health and happiness.
Well might it win communities so blest
To loftier feelings and to nobler thoughts—
The great material symbol of eternal
Things! And well I ween, in after years, how
In the middle of his furrowed track the plowman
In some sultry hour will pause, and wiping
From his brow the dusty sweat, with reverence
Gaze upon that hoary peak. The herdsman
Oft will rein his charger in the plain, and drink
Into his inmost soul the calm sublimity;
And little children, playing on the green, shall
Cease their sport, and, turning to that mountain
Old, shall of their mother ask: “Who made it?”
And she shall answer,—“GOD!”

     And well this Golden State shall thrive, if like
Its own Mt. Shasta, Sovereign Law shall lift
Itself in purer atmosphere—so high
That human feeling, human passion at its base
Shall lie subdued; e’en pity’s tears shall on
Its summit freeze; to warm it e’en the sunlight
Of deep sympathy shall fail:
Its pure administration shall be like
The snow immaculate upon that mountain’s brow!

More by John Rollin Ridge

The Atlantic Cable

Let Earth be glad! for that great work is done,
Which makes, at last, the Old and New World one!
Let all mankind rejoice! for time nor space
Shall check the progress of the human race!
Though Nature heaved the Continents apart,
She cast in one great mould the human heart;
She framed on one great plan the human mind
And gave man speech to link him to his kind;
So that, though plains and mountains intervene,
Or oceans, broad and stormy, roll between,
If there but be a courier for the thought—
Swift-winged or slow—the land and seas are nought,
And man is nearer to his brother brought.

First, ere the dawn of letters was, or burst
The light of science on the world, men, nurs’t
In distant solitudes apart, did send,
Their skin-clad heralds forth to thread the woods,
Scale mountain-peaks, or swim the sudden floods,
And bear their messages of peace or war.

Next, beasts were tamed to drag the rolling car,
Or speed the mounted rider on his track;
And then came, too, the vessels, oar-propelled,
Which fled the ocean, as the clouds grew black,
And safe near shore their prudent courses held.
Next came the winged ships, which, brave and free,
Did skim the bosom of the bounding sea,
And dared the storms and darkness in their flight,
Yet drifted far before the winds and night,
Or lay within the dead calm’s grasp of might.
Then, sea-divided nations nearer came,
Stood face to face, spake each the other’s name,
In friendship grew, and learned the truth sublime,
That Man is Man in every age and clime!
They nearer were by months and years—but space
Must still be shortened in Improvement’s race,
And steam came next to wake the world from sleep,
And launch her black-plumed warriors of the deep;
The which, in calm or storm, rode onward still,
And braved the raging elements at will.
Then distance, which from calms’ and storms’ delays
Grew into months, was shortened into days,
And Science’ self declared her wildest dream
Reached not beyond this miracle of steam!
But steam hath not the lightning’s wondrous power,
Though, Titan-like, mid Science’ sons it tower
And wrestle with the ocean in his wrath,
And sweep the wild waves foaming from its path.
A mightier monarch is that subtler thing,
Which gives to human thought a thought-swift wing;
Which speaks in thunder like a God,
Or humbly stoops to kiss the lifted rod;
Ascends to Night’s dim, solitary throne,
And clothes it with a splendor not its own—
A ghastly grandeur and a ghostly sheen,
Through which the pale stars tremble as they’re seen;
Descends to fire the far horizon’s rim,
And paints Mount Etnas in the cloudland grim;
Or, proud to own fair Science’ rightful sway,
Low bends along th’ electric wire to play,
And, helping out the ever-wondrous plan,
Becomes, in sooth, an errand-boy for man!

This Power it was, which, not content with aught
As yet achieved by human will or thought,
Disdained the slow account of months or days,
In navigation of the ocean ways,
And days would shorten into hours, and these
To minutes, in the face of sounding seas.
If Thought might not be borne upon the foam
Of furrowing keel, with speed that Thought should roam,
It then should walk, like light, the ocean’s bed,
And laugh to scorn the winds and waves o’er head!
Beneath the reach of storm or wreck, down where
The skeletons of men and navies are,
Its silent steps should be; while o’er its path
The monsters of the deep, in sport or wrath,
The waters lashed, till like a pot should boil
The sea, and fierce Arion seize the upcast spoil.

America! to thee belongs the praise
Of this great crowning deed of modern days.
’T was Franklin called the wonder from on high;
’T was Morse who bade it on man’s errands fly—
’T was he foretold its pathway ’neath the sea:
A daring Field fulfilled the prophecy!
’T was fitting that a great, free land like this,
Should give the lightning’s voice to Liberty;
Should wing the heralds of Earth’s happiness,
And sing, beneath the ever-sounding sea,
The fair, the bright millennial days to be.

Now may, ere long, the sword be sheathed to rust,
The helmet laid in undistinguished dust;
The thund’rous chariot pause in mid career,
Its crimsoned wheels no more through blood to steer;
The red-hoofed steed from fields of death be led,
Or turned to pasture where the armies bled;
For Nation unto Nation soon shall be
Together brought in knitted unity,
And man be bound to man by that strong chain,
Which, linking land to land, and main to main,
Shall vibrate to the voice of Peace, and be
A throbbing heartstring of Humanity!


October Hills

I look upon the purple hills
     That rise in steps to yonder peaks,
And all my soul their silence thrills
     And to my heart their beauty speaks.

What now to me the jars of life,
     Its petty cares, its harder throes?
The hills are free from toil and strife,
     And clasp me in their deep repose.

They soothe the pain within my breast
     No power but theirs could ever reach,
They emblem that eternal rest
      We cannot compass in our speech.

From far I feel their secret charm—
     From far they shed their healing balm,
And lost to sense of grief or harm
     I plunge within their pulseless calm.

How full of peace and strength they stand,
     Self-poised and conscious of their weight!
We rise with them, that silent band,
     Above the wrecks of Time or Fate;

For, mounting from their depths unseen,
     Their spirit pierces upward, far,
A soaring pyramid serene,
     And lifts us where the angels are.

I would not lose this scene of rest,
     Nor shall its dreamy joy depart;
Upon my soul it is imprest,
     And pictured in my inmost heart.

My Harp

Oh must I fling my harp aside,
     Nor longer let it soothe my heart?
No! sooner might the tender bride
     From th’ first night’s nuptial chamber part!
No! sooner might the warrior cast
     His martial plume of glory down,
Or worshipt monarch fling in dust
     His royal sceptre and his crown!

Must all that ever smoothed my way
     Along the tedious path of time,
Or kept me for some glimpse of day,
     Or held my desperate hand from crime;
Must all, that I have loved so dear,
     When every other source of joy
Had fled, be careless thrown away
     As if it were some idle toy?

Oh no—that harp may all be rough
     And grating to another’s ear—
So let it be—it is enough
     That unto me it still is dear!
If, in the silent midnight, I
     Have oft my weeping heart beguiled,—
If oft when gloom surrounded me,
     My spirit o’er its strains have smiled.

It were a folly strange indeed
     To cast that solace from my breast!
It were but wishing yet to bleed
     Without one certain place of rest;
It were to drink the bitterest gall,
     To add but poison to a wound,
And find new pangs of sorrowing
     Where hitherto they were not found.

It were to plunge within the deep
     Of wilderness and night—where grope
Worse ills than e’er disturbed the sleep
     Of minds forsook of peace and hope!
Oh, tell me not to spurn this harp,
     Although it may not be divine,
For thou hast felt no pangs, as I,
     And my sad soul’s unlike to thine.

’Tis sweet, when mournfulness enshrouds
     The spirit sorrowing and pale,
And gather round the angry clouds,
     To take the harp and tune its wail.
’Tis sweet, when calmly broods the night,
     To wander forth where waters roll,
And, mingling with the waves its voice,
     To rouse the passions of the soul!

Then, off with ye! who coldly tell
     Me my loved harp to fling away—
I’d rather bid all friends farewell,
     Than have the folly to obey!
For friends are but a fleeting trust,
     As transient as the evening’s blush;
But, true to me in all my moods,
     My harp shall ne’er its soothings hush!