Louise Schepler

A fearless journeyer o’er the mountain-snow
Wert thou, Louise! The sun’s decaying light
Oft, with its latest, melancholy glow,
Redden’d thy steep, wild way: the starry night
Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle’s height,
Piercing some dark ravine: and many a dell
Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses well,
Thy gentle presence, which hath made them bright
Oft in mid-storms--oh! not with beauty’s eye,
Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning;
No! pilgrim of unwearying charity!
Thy spell was love--the mountain-deserts turning
To blessed realms, where stream and rock rejoice
When the glad human soul lifts a thanksgiving voice!