Alfred Castner King Biography

The spirit of freedom is born of the mountains,
In gorge and in canon it hovers and dwells;
Pervading the torrents and crystalline fountains,
Which dash through the valleys and forest clad dells.
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Ill fares the heart, when hope has fled;
When vanishes each prospect fair,
When the last flickering ray has sped,
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For some the river of life would seem
Free from the shallow, the reef, or bar,
As they gently glide down the silvery stream
With scarcely a ripple, a lurch, or jar;
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Hope is the shadowy essence of a wish,
A fond desire which floats before our eyes;
With lurid aberration, feverish,-
We clutch the shadow which elusive, flies;
Though at our grasp the mocking fancy flees,
Hope still pursues and soothes realities.
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Is there a Death? The light of day
At eventide shall fade away;
From out the sod's eternal gloom
The flowers, in their season, bloom;
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