The clouds had vanished, not a trace Remained upon the arch of space, To interpose a curtain rude Between earth and infinitude; Pellucid as the vault o'erhead, The snows a layer of beauty spread, Save where the genii of the storm Had fashioned in fantastic form, With alternating whirl and sift, The pendent comb and massive drift.
The wilderness of ice and snow, Transfigured with a mellow glow, Received from the translucent skies The stellar groups and galaxies; A record of the starry waste, By Nature's faultless pencil traced; The vernal phalanxes of pine, In cassocks clear and crystalline, Seemed as a mirror, in whose sheen The glimmering lamps of night were seen. The replica of pearl and gem, In heaven's twinkling diadem; Golconda's treasury displayed, On background of the forest shade.
Divested of their transient green, By Autumn winds in wanton rage, The aspen's leafless limbs were seen Festooned with frosty foliage; As fell upon their vestal white, The placid moon's aspiring light, The noble spruce and stately fir, Stood draped with feathery garniture; Configurated and embossed, With lace and tapestry of frost, In quaint and curious design, The willows and the underbrush, Were crystallized in silvery plush, And shimmered in the cold moonshine.
The azure dome of space o'erhead, With scintillating grandeur spread, Looked down with cold inquiring eyes, On earth with all her mysteries; The while reflecting in their snows, These glittering jewels of the night, The mountains lay in calm repose, Slumbering 'neath their robes of white.
I will sing of a quaint old tradition, A legend romantic and strange, Which was whispered to me by the pine trees High up on the wild mountain range. Far away in the mystical Westland, From the mountain peaks crested with snow, Glides Dolores, the river of sorrow, Dolores, the river of woe.
Time was when this river of sorrow Had never a thought to be sad, But meandered in joy through the meadows, With bluebell and columbine clad. Her ripples were ripples of laughter, And the soft, dulcet voice of her flow Was suggestive of peace and affection, Not accents of anguish and woe.
Long ago, ere the foot of the white man Had left its first print on the sod, A people, both free and contented, Her mesas and cañon-ways trod. Then Dolores, the river of sorrow, Was a river of laughter and glee, As she playfully dashed through the cañons In her turbulent rush to the sea.