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Last eve the sunset winds upheaved
A mountain in the west,
All seamed with gloomy gulfs, from base
Up to its golden crest;
Cloud piled on cloud that mountain rose--
A storm whose wrath was spent--
Its routed legions gathered up,
In common ruin blent;
And all about its dark base rolled
A sea of gorgeous dyes,
And on its summit blazed a fire
Too bright for mortal eyes;
And grandly down its southern slope
A purpling river flowed
Into the sea of gorgeous dyes
Which at its foot abode.


And we, who marked the scene sublime,
Beheld a shining band
Press upward to the mountain top,
As to a Promised Land;
Their faces kindling with the light
That played about its crest--
And two, more glorious, led the way,
In spotless garments dressed;
Some wearied on the way, and these
The stronger lifted up,
And held unto their parching lips
Love's overflowing cup--
And thus refreshed, they buoyantly
Pressed forward in the van,
And leaped and danced for gladness, where
The purpling river ran.


Thus joyously the band pressed on
Until the least had won
And stood transfigured on the mount--
The children of the sun;
But soon their brightness waxed too great
For mortal eyes to bear,
And Night, in mercy, dropped her veil
To hide the vision fair:
But we, who saw that light sublime,
Hallowing yestereven,
Joyed in the thought that we had sped
A little nearer Heaven.