Smith, Effie Waller
|SONGS OF THE MONTHS.|
|TO THE CUMBERLAND MOUNTAINS.|
O, Cumberland! O, Cumberland!
My own dear native hills;
For you, oh, rugged Cumberland,
With love my bosom thrills.
Your rugged and towering cliffs
Are beauty and a wonder;
They have withstood for centuries
The crash of maddened thunder.
Summer finds your craggy peaks
No caps of whiteness wearing,
From base to crest you greet the eye
With green majestic bearing.
In childhood's days upon your slopes
How often have I wandered;
How oft o'er your sublimity
My childish mind has pondered.
With joy I've plucked the flowers that bloomed
Within your dells and dales;
With eagerness I've watched the streams
Plash through your wooded vales.
I've seen within these wooded vales
The timid, cowering dove;
I've seen the eagle wing his flight
Your lofty heights above.
Not solely for your beauty,
Nor because my home is here;
Nor for these dear old mountains,
In my heart I love you dear.
But within your soil lies buried,
'Neath a wealth of snow-white flowers,
The only love of my lost youth,
Of my childhood's bygone hours.