Where the snowy peaks gleam in the moonlight,Above the dark forests of pine,And the wild foaming waters dash onward,Toward lands where the tropic stars shine;Where the scream of the bold mountain eagleResponds to the notes of the doveIs the purple robed West, the land that is best,The pioneer land that we love.
- Tis the land where the columbines grow,
- Overlooking the plains far below,
- While the cool summer breeze in the evergreen trees
- Softly sings where the columbines grow.
- The bison is gone from the upland,
- The deer from the canyon has fled,
- The home of the wolf is deserted,
- The antelope moans for his dead,
- The war whoop re-echoes no longer,
- The Indian’s only a name,
- And the nymphs of the grove in their loneliness rove,
- But the columbine blooms just the same. Let the violet brighten the brookside,
- In sunlight of earlier spring,
- Let the fair clover bedeck the green meadow,
- In days when the orioles sing,
- Let the goldenrod herald the autumn,
- But, under the midsummer sky,
- In its fair Western home, may the columbine bloom
- Till our great mountain rivers run dry.
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