Mountain Sanctuaries

A child midst ancient mountains I have stood,
Where the wild falcons make their lordly nest
On high. The spirit of the solitude
Fell solemnly upon my infant breast,
Though then I pray’d not; but deep thoughts have press’d
Into my being since it breathed that air,
Nor could I now one moment live the guest
Of such dread scenes, without the springs of prayer
O’erflowing all my soul. No minsters rise
Like them in pure communion with the skies,
Vast, silent, open unto night and day;
So might the o’erburden’d Son of Man have felt,
When, turning where inviolate stillness dwelt,
He sought high mountains, there apart to pray.