To the Mountain

Just as soon as Mass is over,
Put our pious airs away;
And with luncheon in our baskets,
To the mountain! To the mountain!
To the mountain for the day!
 
Hark, the bells of glory ringing
From the belfries of the Spring!--
Sun and sky! -- oh, what a blessing
After gloomy days, they bring!
 
How the water o'er the mill-wheel
Rumbles furious and fast,
Bursting through a thousand echoes
Until -- there -- 'tis gone at last!
 
For the woods our hearts are hungry;
Every bird hears us reply;
Incense seems to sweep our bosoms--
To the mountain! To the mountain!
To the mountain, let us hie!
 
Every grotto holds a secret;
Every cleft its creed and rite;
On the slopes is scattered grandeur--
Hawthorn flowers and crags in sight!
 
On the peaks the wind is hymning,--
Heaven is nigh -- the town, far down;
Ah, why should not human dwellings
All the free-world mountains crown?--
 
At the nightfall -- with our baskets
Empty -- to the town we haste;
All the mountains fill with shadows,--
Spirits of the dreaded waste!--