WITH what pride I used To walk these hills, and look up to my God, And bless him that it was so! I loved Its very storms. I have sat In my boat at night when, midway o’er the lake, The stars went out, and down the mountain gorge The wind came roaring. I have sat and eyed The thunder breaking from his cloud, and smiled To see him shake his lightnings o’er my head, And think I had no master save his own. You know the jutting cliff round which a track Up hither winds, whose base is but the brow To such another one, with scanty room For two abreast to pass? O’ertaken there By the mountain blast, I’ve laid me flat along, And while gust followed gust more furiously, As if to sweep me o’er the horrid brink, And I have thought of other lands, whose storms Are summer flaws to those of mine, and just Have wished me there—the thought that mine was free Has checked that wish; and I have raised my head, And cried in thraldrom to that furious wind, Blow on! This is the land of liberty!