The boom of blasts in the gold-ribbed hills,
The grizzly’s growl in the gorge below
Are dying away, and the sound of rills
From the far-off shimmering crest of snow,
The laurel green and the ivied oak,
A yellow stream and a cabin’s smoke,
The brown bent hills and the shepherd’s call,
The hills of vine and of fruits, and all
The sweets of Eden are here, and we
Look out and afar to a limitless sea.