Strong, calm, and solemn as thy mountains be!

Poets have sung thy ever-living power,

Thy wintry day, and summer sunset hour;

Have told how rich thou art, how broad, how deep,

What commerce thine, how many myriads reap

The harvest of thy waters. They have sung

Thy moony nights, when every shadow flung

From cliff or pine is peopled with dim ghosts

Of settlers, old-world fairies, or the hosts

Of savage warriors that once plowed thy waves—