The Silvery San Juan.

Wherever I wander, my spirit still dwells,     In the silvery San Juan[1] with its streamlet and dells;     Whose mountainous summits, so rugged and high,     With their pinnacles pierce the ethereal sky;     Where the daisy, the rose, and the sweet columbine     Blend their colors with those of the sober hued pine;     Where the ceaseless erosions of measureless time,     Have chiseled the grotto and canon sublime;     Have sculptured the cliff, and the stern mountain wall;     Have formed the bold turret, impressive and tall;     Have cut the deep gorge with its wonderful caves,     Sepulchral and gloomy; whose vast architraves     Support the stalactites, both pendant and white,     Which with the stalagmites beneath them unite;     Where nestles a valley, sequestered and grand,     Worn out of the rock by the same tireless hand,     Surrounded by mountains, majestic and gray,     Which smile from their heights on the Town of Ouray.     Wherever I wander, my ears hear the sound     Of thy waters, which plunge with a turbulent bound     O'er the precipice, seething and laden with foam;     My ears hear their music wherever I roam;     Where the cataract's rhapsody, joyous and light,     Enchants in the morning and soothes in the night;     Where blend the loud thunders, sonorous and deep,     With the sobs of the rain as the black heavens weep;     Where the whispering zephyr, and murmuring breeze,     Unite with the soft, listless sigh of the trees;     And where to the fancy, the voices of air     Wail in tones of distress, or in shrieks of despair;     Where mourneth the night wind, with desolate breath,     In accents suggestive of sorrow and death;     As falls from the heavens, so fleecy and light,     The winter's immaculate mantle of white;     Wherever I wander, these sounds greet my ears,     And the silvery San Juan to my fancy appears.