O'er prairies, sleeping like a grave,
And glorious through these mountain halls,
Pours in a flood its silvery wave—
I climb the cliff, and hear the song,
That o'er the breast of stillness steals:
I hear the cataract thundering strong
From far; I hear the wave that peals
Along the lone lake's pebbly shore;
I hear the sweeping gust that weaves
The tree tops, and the winds that pour