Uprose Monadnock in the northern blue,
A glorious temple builded to the Lord!
The setting sun his crimson radiance threw
On crest, and steep and wood, and valley sward,
Blending their myriad hues in rich accord,
Till like the wall of heaven it towered to view.
Along its slope, where russet fems were strewn
And purple heaths, the scarlet maples flamed,
And reddening oaks and golden birches shone,
Resplendent oriels in the black pines framed,–
The pines that climb to woo the winds alone.
And down its cloisters blew the evening breeze,
Through courts and aisles ablaze with autumn bloom,
Till the great minister thrilled to harmonies,
Now soaring, dying now in glade and gloom.
And with the wind was heard the voice of streams,–
Ceaseless their Aves and Te Deums be,–
Lone Ashuelot murmuring down the lea,
And brooks that haste where shy Contoocook gleams
Through groves and meadows, broadening to the sea.
Then holy twilight fell on earth and air,
Above the done the stars hung faint and fair,
And the vast temple hushed its shrines in prayer;
While all the lesser heights kept watch and ward
About Monadnock, builded to the Lord!
—The Atlantic monthly, Boston; volume 61, Issue 363, page 127, by Edna Dean Proctor.