Читать книгу Occoneechee, the Maid of the Mystic Lake - Robert Frank Jarrett - Страница 11

Upper Catawba Falls, Esmeralda, N. C.	Occoneechee Falls, Jackson County, N. C.
In the Cherokee Country. “Falls and foams and seethes forever.”	Whitewater Falls. “Pours its deluge down the ravine Unobstructed in its rage.”

Then she wandered down the river,

On and on, as on it flows,

Wades the river, wades its branches,

Follows it where’er it goes

Through the laurel brush and ivy,

Over spreading beds of fern,

Over rock moss-covered ledges,

Follows every winding turn,

Till it flows into the river,

Called the Little Tennessee,

Here she lingers long and tarries,

And she strains her eyes to see

If her vision will reveal him,

And abates her breath to hear

The voice of Whippoorwill, her lover,

One of all to her most dear.

Yet no sound came to relieve her,

And no vision came to please,

And it never dawned upon her,

Here among the virgin trees,

That her lover was transported,

With the brave and chief and child

To the land of Oklahoma,

Land so lonely, weird and wild.

Up the stream she then ascended,

Slowly, surely did she march,

‘Neath the spreading oak and hemlock,

Resting oft beneath their arch.

Walls of solid spar and granite

Roared their heads up toward the blue,

But no wall or hill or river

Could impede the maiden true.

She now reached the Nantahala,

Picturesque in every way,

And she rested ‘neath the shadow

Of the mountain tall and gray;

High the mountain, clear the water,

That comes rushing down the side

Of the mountain from the forest

With its unpolluted tide.

Speckled beauties swam the water,

Swam as only they can do;

Deer in herds roamed all the forest,

Only Cherokees were few.

Eagles, swift upon their pinions,

Soared aloft upon the air,

They would turn their eyes to heaven,

Then down on the maiden fair,

As to guard her in her roaming,

For she had no other guide,

Save one squaw and constellation,

And the racing river tide.

Birds had ceased their long migration,

Not a cloud disturbed the blue

Of the canopy of heaven,

And the country they passed through.

Nightingale and thrush and robin

Mated, sang and dwelt serene,

In the forest, by the river,

With its banks so fresh and green,

And each spoke to Occoneechee,

In the language Nature gives,

Of the flora and the fauna,

Where the child of Nature lives.

Then she rambled through the mountains,

To the summit, grand and high,

Where Tusquittee’s bald and forest

Penetrates the cloudless sky.

Unobstructed vision reaches

‘Cross the Valley River, wide,

To the Hiawassee river,

Flowing in its lordly pride.

Here the panorama rises

In its beauty grand and gay,

As you linger on the summit,

As you hesitating stay;

Visions long out in the distance;

Haunt you with enchanted smile,

And the reverie of Nature

Doth the wanderer beguile.

Valleytown, the Indian village,

And Aquone, the camping ground,

Cheoas vale within the distance,

Once where Cherokee were found,

Came within the easy focus

Of the trained observant eye

Of the maiden on the mountain,

Near the clearest vaulted sky.

Occoneechee looked and wondered,

Scanned the mountain, scanned the vale,

And she lifted up her voice there,

And began to weep and wail;

For her lover, long departed,

For her lover brave and true,

And she wondered if he tarried

In the reaches of her view.

Still no sight or sound revealed him,

Beauty smiled and smiled again,

As she sighed and prayed to Nature,

Yet her anxious thoughts were vain.

For the valley and the mountain,

And the river and the rill,

Separated Occoneechee

From her lover Whippoorwill.

Then she to the Hiawassee,

Wound the mountain-side and vale,

And she made a boat of hemlock,

And she left the mountain trail,

And she launched the boat of hemlock

On the Hiawassee tide,

Launched the boat and went within it,

Down the silver stream to glide.

Down the river set with forest,

Nottely joins the quickened pace

Of the river and the maiden,

In their onward rapid race,

And she passes through the narrows,

Through the narrows quick she flew,

Through the spray and foaming current,

With her long hemlock canoe.

Faster sped the boat of hemlock,

Past the mountains and the shoal,

Past the inlet Conasauga,

Where Okoee waters roll;

Here she stopped to make inquiry

Of a relegated brave.

If he’d seen her wandering lover,

In the forest, by the wave.

Then she left the boat of hemlock,

Roamed the forest far and wide,

Crossed the mountain streams and fountains,

With their cliff and foaming tide,

Followed far Okoee river,

Toccoa laves her weary feet,

Ellijay and Coogawattee

Do the pretty maiden greet.

Not a word in all her wanderings

Did she hear of Whippoorwill,

Though she roamed through leagues of forest,

And by many a rippling rill.

Candy creek and Oostanula,

Both were followed to their source,

With their winding current flowing

In their ever onward course.

Where the brave had traveled with her,

And had told her many tales

Of the wars he’d been engaged in,

And the windings of the trails,

Over which the tribe had traveled

In the years that long had flown,

And the land now held by strangers,

Which his tribe once called their own.

And at evening in the autumn,

When the leaves turn brown and red,

And the hickory and the maple

Gild with yellow as they shed,

And the poplar and the chestnut,

And the beech and chinquapin,

Hide the squirrel and the pheasant

From the sight of selfish men;

Where the grapevine climbs the alder,

Clings with tendril to the pine,

And the air is sweetly laden

With rich odors from the vine;

And the walnut and the dogwood

Furnish dainties rich and rare,

For the chipmunk and the partridge,

Which perchance do wander there.

Where the otter slide is slickened,

And the weasel and the mink

Do come creeping down the river,

There to bathe and fish and drink,

And the red fox roams the forest,

And defies the fleetest hound,

And the panther in the forest

Makes a hideous screaming sound.

Here the brave would sit and tell them

Tales and myths told oft before,

Tales of war and of adventure,

By great chiefs now known no more;

And one night they heard the shrieking

Of a wildcat near the stream,

That awakened them from slumber

And disturbed their peaceful dream;

For a panther, fierce and fearless,

Had come creeping down the side

Of the cliffs far up the mountain,

Near the Hiawassee tide,

And they met down near the river,

And they fought down near the stream,

And they made the night grow hideous

With their awful shrieks and scream.

The Balsam Mountains.

In Jackson Co., N. C.

North from Sunset Rock, Tryon Mt.

Then she took her boat of hemlock,

And they launched it on the wave,

And they sat upon its gunnels,

Occoneechee squaw and brave,

And they pushed out in the current,

Where the waves were rolling high,

And the boat sped through the rapids,

Fast as flocks of pigeons fly.

Pushed they down and ever onward

Toward the placid Tennessee,

To the island and the inlet

Of the rolling Hiawassee.

Here they camped o’er night and rested,

Told they tales of long ago,

With their memories and sorrows

Breathed they out their care and woe.

Then they floated down the river,

On its smooth, unrippled tide.

To the creek of Chicamauga,

Where so many braves had died.

And they tented near the river,

Tied their boat up to the bank,

Where John Ross had crossed the river,

Where his ferryboat once sank.

Wandered through the vale of dryness,

Chattanooga’s pretty flow,

Clear as crystal, pure as sunbeams,

Winding hither too and fro.

Drank the waters, bathed they in it,

Fished and hunted stream and plain,

Where the buffalo once wandered,

But where none now doth remain.

Like a serpent that is crawling,

Wriggling, writhing, resting not,

Fleeing from a strange invader

To some lone secluded spot,

Winds and curves and turns forever,

In its course that has no end,

Swings to starboard and to larboard,

Round the Moccasin’s great bend.

Flows the river on forever,

By the nodding flowering tree,

Shedding fragrance like a censer,

Flows the pretty Tennessee;

On her bosom’s crest is carried

Precious burdens, rich and rare,

From the fertile fields about her,

And the ozone-laden air.

Occoneechee squaw and warrior

Rode the silver-flowing tide,

in the boat made out of hemlock,

Which so long had been their pride;

But the time now came for parting,

As must come in every life,

That is heir to human nature,

With its toil and woe and strife.

Here Sequatchie’s fertile valley,

They approached and must ascend,

Like the cloud before the sunbeam,

Driven by the fiercest wind;

Then they hid the boat of hemlock,

Sure and safe, then bade adieu,

To the boat upon the river,

Which had been their friend so true.

Then they mounted little ponies,

Fresh and sleek and fat and fast,

And they sped along the valley,

Like the birds upon the blast,

Looking for the handsome warrior,

Looking hither, glancing there,

And quite often on the journey,

They would stop to offer prayer;

But the valley held the secret;

Not a living man could wrest,

From the valley rich and fertile,

Secrets buried in its breast;

Though the tribe had ceased to own it,

Though the tribe had passed away,

From the valley of Sequatchie,

Like the fading of the day,

Still the signs and many tokens

Told a tale of war and strife,

Where the whites had used the rifle,

And the braves had used the knife,

For the bleaching bones of warriors

Were discovered everywhere,

And the hideous sight brought sorrow,

To this maiden now so fair,

Birds were singing in the forest,

Merrily and full of glee,

And a symphony unrivaled

Flooded forestland and lea;

With the mellow tones from singers,

Varied, versatile and sweet,

Came from forest and from meadow,

Came the attuned ear to greet.

And when evening shade would settle,

And the moon full rose to view,

And the zephyrs filled the valley,

And the flowers suffused with dew,

Then the nightingale would lure them

Or the mockingbird hold sway,

From the advent of Orion,

Till the dawning of the day.

Stretching meadows lay before them,

Rich with fragrance, rare with flowers,

Variegated blending colors

Lent a rapture to its bowers,

That outstripped the fields elysian,

Decked with Nature’s rarest guise,

Pleasure-house for wisest sages,

Such as only fools despise.

Such the scenes within the valley,

As they joyous sped along,

Filled with rapture, filled with pleasure,

At the scenery and the song.

Nature clapped her hands exultant,

In the sylvan groves so green,

Where the Goddess Proserpina

Was enthroned majestic queen.

Mighty warriors red with passion,

Once had trod this virgin soil,

And had rested in the valley,

When o’ercome by heat and toil;

Sportive maidens once delighted

To engage in dance and song,

With the warriors in the valley,

With the chieftains brave and strong.

But the mighty men and maidens

Long since ceased this land to roam,

Since the pale face armed with power,

Killed the braves and burned the home,

Took the land and burned the wigwam,

Bound the chief and drove away,

All the warriors, squaws and maidens,

Toward the golden close of day.

Happy children, wild with rapture,

Laughed with ecstasy and glee,

Once had filled the vale with echoes,

And had sported lithe and free,

All along the hill-locked valley,

Played lacrosse and strung the bow,

Ran the races, caught the squirrel,

In the distant long ago.

Sped they like the rolling torrent,

Thru the Appalachian chain,

With its towering peaks and gorges,

‘Mid its sunshine and its rain,

Sped along the flowing Chuckey,

With its reddened banks of clay,

Were delighted by its beauty,

Were enticed with it to stay;

Saw the rushing, rolling waters

Fall and foam and seeth below,

Saw the cascade of Watauga

Surging hither to and fro;

Looked with tireless vision upward,

Viewed from summits high and proud,

Landscapes grander than Olympus,

With their crags above the cloud.

“Occoneechee,” said the warrior,

In a gentle tone, and mild,

“I remember all this grandeur,

Since I was a little child,

I have traveled trail and mountain,

Chased Showono, deer and bear,

Crossed Kentucky in the chases,

Seen the blue-grass state so fair.

Once while hotly, I pursuing,

Buck with antlers fierce and strong,

Came upon a band of white men,

With their rifles black and long,

Came a flash of rifle powder,

Quick as lightning came the sounds,

From reverberating rifles,

And the bark of baying hounds.

They had slain the buck with antlers,

And would be upon me soon,

If discovered by their captain,

By their captain, Daniel Boone;

He the hunter, Indian hater,

Chief and captain, pioneer,

Known to every tribe and tribesman,

To be destitute of fear.

Quick I back into the forest,

Without noise or slightest sound,

Lest perchance I draw attention,

From the hunter or his hound.

’Twas a wilderness of wildness,

Transylvania was its name,

Home of coon and hare and turkey,

And all sorts of kindred game.

Once the noble chiefs and warriors

Roamed Kentucky far and wide,

Far along the broad Ohio,

Strode the Indians by her tide;

And they camped and roamed the forest,

Dense and dark, supremely grand,

Dominated vale and forest,

Dominated all the land;

Chased the scouting bands of warriors,

Who would dare to camp and die,

On the soil of old Kentucky,

Where the meadow grass grew high;

Hiding ‘neath the waving grasses,

Where the muskrat and the snake,

And the hedge hog and the weasel,

Lurked in shade of vine and brake.

I was with good Junaluska,

In the battles and the raids,

Where the Creek and the Showano

Lent each other all their aids,

When upon the Tallapoosa

River, at the Horseshoe bend,

We joined hands with General Jackson,

And by death we made an end,

Of the Creeks and all their allies,

Who assembled, one and all.

To resist our mighty forces,

They had built their mighty wall,

Built it strong and reinforced it,

Not a single spot was weak,

For ’twas built by master workmen,

By the tribesmen of the Creek.

When the work was strong and finished,

All the warriors came to dwell

In the fortress, by the river,

Came they tales of war to tell;

Came a thousand of the warriors,

With their weapons and their wives,

Came and lodged within the fortress,

Like the swarming bees in hives;

Brought their children and their chattels,

Brought they gun, and club and spear,

For they thought once in the fortress,

That they’d have no harm to fear,

But the Cherokee and Jackson

Brought out cannon great and small,

And they raised the siege of Horseshoe,

Throwing many a shell and ball;

Into fortress, into village,

Flew the missiles thick and fast,

Like the rain, among the rigging,

Of the sailor’s spar and mast,

Crushing, crashing stone of fortress,

Making splinters of the wall,

Of the fortress by the river,

With the heavy cannon ball.

But it fell not in the fury

Of the battle’s hottest fray,

Stood the test like old Gibraltar,

All the night and all the day,

And the progress was so slowly,

That the battle must be lost,

To the Cherokee and Jackson,

And so great would be the cost,

If some means were not discovered,

To dislodge the valiant Creek,

Now entrenched within the fortress,

Growing strong instead of weak.

Junaluska said to Jackson,

‘Choose ye this day man or men,

Who can breast the tide before you,

Who will try to enter in;

Who can swim the Tallapoosa,

Who can stem the flowing tide,

Who are noble, strong and fearless,

And have God upon their side.

If you have such men among you,

Let them come forth one and all,

Let them dare to do their duty,

Let them dare to stand or fall.’

Not one man of all the white men

Could be found who dared to try

To o’ercome the Tallapoosa,

Or would risk his life to die.

So your guide whom God has given,

Volunteered to risk the wave,

With your father, Junaluska,

Volunteered, his tribe to save.

Then we sought our God in silence,

And became resigned to death,

That lay out upon the current

Of the river’s silent breath.

Under cover of the darkness,

And the solitude of night,

We betook the awful peril,

With a tremor of delight.

Silently we now descended

To the deathlike river tide,

Following a star’s reflection,

For a signboard and a guide;

To point out the right direction,

And to bring us into port,

Where the canoes lay at anchor,

Near the stolid silent fort.

Quick we loosed them from their moorings

Each man lashed beside his boat—

Quite a dozen, swift as arrows,

And we set them all afloat;

Shot them straight across the river,

Like a flash at lightning speed,

Faster than the fleetest greyhound,

Bounding like a blooded steed.

When we reached the army’s landing,

Quick the boats were filled with men;

Like a thunderbolt from heaven,

Did the deadly work begin.

Transports glided o’er the current,

Like a shuttle to and fro,

Moving Cherokee and white men,

To confront a worthy foe.

Scaled the ramparts of the fortress,

Stormed the inner citadel,

And we massacred the inmates!

How? No human tongue can tell.

Not a woman, child or human

Made escape, but all were slain

In the fort or in the river,

Or upon the gory plain.

When the massacre and slaughter

Had abated, all the slain

Numbered more than a thousand,

In the fort or on the plain.

Many floated in the river,

Many died out in the woods,

And were buried in the forest,

By erosion or the floods.

Sad and silent stood the fortress,

All deserted and alone;

Not a man or child or matron,

Now was left to claim their own.

All the warriors and the chieftains

Died in conflict true and brave;

None were left to tell the story,

Or to mark some lonely grave.

Cruel man! O God, forgive them!

Pity such a cruel race.

In their stead, O God of nations,

Send some one to take their place,

Who is humane, who is human,

Who is honest, kind and true,

Who when given strength and power,

Destroys not, but spares a few.

In the lore of ancient nations,

In the tales of modern times,

In the prose that now remaineth,

Nor the poet’s splendid rhymes,

Is a story told more cruel

Than the slaughter of the Creeks,

By the Persians, Jews or Romans,

Macedonians or Greeks;

Where a nation, like a shadow,

Vanished quickly and was not,

Like a vapor in the valley

Passes and is soon forgot.

Passes like a fleeing phantom,

Like a mist before the sun,

Came and tarried for a moment,

And forever was undone.

Occoneechee, come and travel,

To the distant mountains high,

Where the summit of the mountains,

Tower upward toward the sky.

Delectable the splendid mountains,

Rich in ferns forever green,

And the galaxy of the mountains

Are the rarest ever seen.

Mortal eyes have never witnessed,

Mortal tongue can never tell

Of the grandeur and the beauty

Of the ravine and the dell.

Strange declivities confront you,

Then a sudden upright wall

Rises like a mystic figure,

With a splendid waterfall.

I will take you to the summit

Of the mountains white with age,

And will show you where the tempests

Rush and roar with ceaseless rage,

Where phenomena electric

Makes mysterious display

Of their power and their beauty

In the distance far away;

Balsam Mountains.

“I will take you to the summit

Of the mountains white with age.”

From Bald Rock.

“At the juncture of the river

Where the Indians used to dwell.”

You can see the flash of lightning,

And can hear the thunders roll,

With reverberating echoes,

That o’erwhelm your very soul,

Make you sigh and shake and shudder,

Make you tremble like a leaf,

Make you crouch in soul and body,

Like the life o’ercome with grief.

Yet you stand and gaze in wonder,

Watch the elements grown dark;

Adoration turns to terror,

At the least electric spark;

Vivid flashes light the heavens,

Keep them in perpetual glow,

Like aurora borealis

From beyond eternal snow.

God eternal sends the sunshine,

Melts the vapor, chains the cloud,

Cages up the lightning flashes,

Stops the peels of thunder loud.

Changes discord into music,

And the soul with it He thrills,

From the music on the mountains,

Made by leaping, laughing rills.

Look! behold the ray that cometh,

Fills the earth with hope again,

Dissipates the clouds and vapor,

With their shadows and their rain.

See the sunburst full of glory,

Shoot forth rays of gilt and gold,

Sung by bards, portrayed by artists

Yet its glory ne’er was told.

Painters fail to give description,

Fail on canvas to portray,

Rising sun within the mountains,

And the glorious dawn of day;

Sages, bards and humble poets,

All are pigmies in the eyes

Of the one who stands and watches

Sunshine from its sleep arise.

Picturesque! O scenes eternal!

From the dizzy, dizzy heights

Of Grandfather, Rone and Linville,

From which rivers take their flights.

Yadkin, Broad and the Catawbas,

Where the Indians used to roam,

Are the habitation only

Of the white man and his home.

High upon the Linville mountains

Creeps a silent silver stream,

From the shadows of the forest,

Like the splendor of a dream,

Then it runs amid the boulders,

Joins with many sparkling rills,

That comes rushing from the forest,

Of those high eternal hills,

Till its speed becomes augmented,

Till you hear the rushing sounds,

Of the Linville river raging,

As it leaps and falls and bounds,

As it dashes through the granite,

Falls into the natural pool,

Built by nature in the chasm,

With its water clear and cool.

In the Blue Ridge range of mountains

Stand a thousand spires and domes,

Built of adamant eternal,

From whose base the river roams,

Like the maiden Occoneechee,

Wanders out replete with tears,

Into strange lands, unto strangers,

Thru the lapse of passing years,

Longing to be reunited,

With her fiance forever,

From his presence and his wooing,

To be separated never.

Thus the river and the maiden

Rambled through the mountains wild,

Seeking for a long lost lover,

As a mother seeks her child.

Climbs the black dome of the mountain,

Richest pinnacle e’er seen;

And the landscape lay before her,

With its mounds and vales between.

Lends enchantment grand and gorgeous,

Gives a new lease unto life,

And you soon forget you’re living

In a world of care and strife.

Thus Mount Mitchell in the Blue Ridge,

Zenith hill among the hills,

Sends forth life anew forever,

And a thousand rippling rills.

In the distance the Savannah’s

Flows a stream of pure delight,

Flows she on, and on forever,

Never stopping day or night.

For her mission is a true one,

And the river ever true,

Rolls along the grandest valley,

That a river e’er rolled through;

Peopled by a population

Rich in soul and thought divine,

From her source up in the mountains,

Till her soul the sea entwines.

Turning to the sun that’s setting,

Setting far beyond the rim,

Of the horizon of vision,

Where the eyes grow weak and dim,

You behold the Swannanoa,

Naiad, pure and fresh and sweet,

Crystalline, and cool and limpid,

Strays some other stream to greet.

From the cliffside in the mountains

Roll a thousand little streams,

Laughing as they greet each other,

Where the sunshine never beams;

Rippling, idling, swirling slowly,

Leaping down a waterfall,

You can hear the drops of water,

Sweetly to their compeers call.

Down the valley glides the river,

Murmuring a sad farewell,

To the birds and bees and people,

Who along its highway dwell;

Wishing them a happy future,

Wishing them prosperity,

While it fills its many missions

‘Twixt the mountains and the sea.

Bathing rocks, refreshing people,

Casting up its silver spray,

As it glides along the valley,

Flows forever and for aye.

Men may move their tents and chattels,

Others die or go astray,

Still the stream flows fresh forever,

Never resting night or day.

Giving life unto the flowers,

Blooming on its verdant side,

As it travels, as it journeys,

As its ripples make their stride.

In the gloaming of the twilight,

When the birds had ceased to fly,

And the dazzling dome of heaven

Gave resplendence to the sky.

Lower Cullasaja Falls.

“From the cliffside in the mountains

Roll a thousand little streams.”

Occoneechee, squaw and warrior,

Watched the stream, as on it sped,

Rippling o’er the pebbly bottom,

Lying on its rocky bed;

Grasses waving green around them,

Nodding boughs bid them adieu,

And it wafted them caresses,

Like the sunbeams sparkling dew.

Precious fragrance filled the valley,

From the sweet shrub and the pine,

Luscious fruits and ripening melons

Lade the apple tree and vine.

All along the pretty valley,

Harvest fields and curing hay

Make the white man rich and happy,

Where the warriors used to stray.

At the juncture of the river,

Where the Indians used to dwell,

Where they made their pots of red clay,

Made them crude but made them well,

Here they tented long and hunted,

Fished the Tah-kee-os-tee stream,

Strolled along the racing river,

Where its rippling waters gleam.

Moons passed on, and yet no greetings

Came to cheer the wandering maid,

Who so long had sought her lover,

Till her hopes began to fade,

And she felt that she must hasten,

Quickly hasten thru the wild,

By the rapid river racing,

She the nature-loving child.

Then they took their little ponies,

Girt them with a roebuck hide,

Seated on the nimble ponies,

Started swiftly on the ride,

On to Toxaway the river,

On to Toxaway the lake,

Where the leaf of vine and alder,

Hide the muskrat and the snake.

All along the racing river,

Gorgeous forest trees are seen,

And the wild deer in the forest

Dwells beneath the coat of green.

Here the beaver, hare and turkey

Share their food and come to drink,

In the splendid spreading forest,

Near the Tah-kee-os-tee’s brink.

Here they fished and caught the rainbow,

Caught the little mountain trout,

In the lake and in the river,

With their poles both crude and stout;

Caught the squirrel and the pheasant,

Chased the turkey, deer and bear,

Caught a-plenty, all they needed,

Yet they had not one to spare.

In the sapphire land they lingered

Many days and many nights,

On the mountains, ‘mid the laurel,

Looking at the wondrous sights,

That will greet you in the mountains,

That you see in vales below,

As you tread the paths untrodden,

As you wander to and fro.

In the forest land primeval

Where the fountains form their heads,

Lies the famous vale of flowers,

Splendid valley of pink beds.

Every tribe and every hunter

Knows this lone secluded spot,

From the other vales so famous;

When once seen is ne’er forgot.

In this vale of flowers and sunshine,

Lies the Aidenn, most tranquil,

Where the sore and heavy-laden,

Gambol peacefully at will;

Hear the trill of distant music,

Played on Nature’s vibrant chime,

Resonant with sweetest concord

All attuned to perfect time.

Here the weary, heavy-laden

Soul, may lose his load of care,

And the body, sick and wounded,

Find an answer to his prayer.

Precious incense here arises,

From the brasier of the vale

That ascends the lofty mountains,

By an unseen, trackless trail.

Pisgah stands, the peer and rival

Of Olympus, famed of old,

Where the gods met in their councils,

And their consultations held.

Looking far across the valleys,

They behold on either side,

Rivers, vales and gushing fountains,

Which forever shall abide.