  In the purple of the morning, Through the dreamy haze of day spring, Did the mountain-tops ’round Salt Lake Loom before us, as the desert We were leaving far behind us. “Lofty mountains of the prophet,” Did I mutter without thinking, Came the words, as if repeated After some one who knew better, After one whose inspiration Was from truth and heavenly wisdom; And instinctively I pondered That the prophet’s eyes had often Lifted been to these blue mountains, Whence his help should come, and glory Of the Lord appear to Zion, And ’mongst which the trail was winding, Bloody trail of weary pilgrims, Seeking an abiding city, Guarded by their rugged fastness, And the wide expanse of Salt Lake. Here, where seemed but barren desert, Did the prophet’s eye see visions Of a city and a temple, Where the saints should dwell in saf’ty, Where in peace they God might worship; And this vision, now made real, Gives a romance to their valleys; And whate’er their names may be, I Call them mountains of the prophet. |
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