I've stood upon the wooded mountain's brow,
That beetles high fly lovely valley o'er.
Nature hath made thee lovelier than the power
Even of Campbell's pen hath pictured; he
Had woven, had ne gazed one sunny hour
Upon thy smiling vale, its scenery
With more of truth, and made each rock and tree
Known like old friends, and greeted from afar;
And there are tales of sad reality
In the dark legends of thy border war,