And from the middle darkness flashes out,
By fits he deals his fiery bolts about.
Sometimes I have stood on a height in the tumult of a storm, in the whirl of driving mists, when a rent was suddenly torn in the black canopy, and for an instant, the lofty crags were seen glistening against the deep sky, calm, like sustaining hope in the time of trouble. Sometimes, rejoicing in the freshness of a glorious winter’s morning, I have fancied, that upon their lustrous summits is spread a carpet for the immortals, for
Not proud Olympus yields a nobler sight,
Tho’ Gods assembled grace his tow’ring height,
Than what more humble mountains offer here,
Where, in their blessings, all those Gods appear.
At noon, while ‘the tuneful cicala, perched on a tree, poured forth a shrill song from under his wings,’ I used to spread a cloth in the shade, and ‘with face turned to catch the brisk-blowing Zephyr,’ reclined there rejoicing. Mohammed sat by my side, and devised new patterns to be carved upon my stick of wild olive. My neighbour of the threshing-floor, with a wreath of pea wound round his head, the curling tendrils falling on his shoulders, squatted hard by, contemplating the heaped-up corn, whilst he pictured capacious bins overflowing with a bountiful store.
The pipe in my mouth was not a melodious one, but there rose from it a fragrant cloud—as I may say—an incense, grateful I trust, to her who has ever been honoured in these regions; ‘the mountain nymph, sweet Liberty.’
In these uplands during the noontide lull, or at tranquil evening, does she not revisit her haunts, and bless the careworn husbandman?