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.