O Jomeokee, thou everlasting guide,
Lifting high thyself, a tower strong
For passing men, and deathless hills around;
For Yadkin and on-flowing Ararat,
Bathing thy feet in humblest gratitude;
Thy lofty head, embraced by cooling clouds,
Gives something forth that’s rich, and unto all—
O Pilot old, thy secret bare to me.
Tell me when thy origin and where;
What hidden womb ambitious gave thee birth;
Bear witness thou to all both seen and heard
By thee from first to last; from primal man,
To Renfro Indian tribe, who spake thy praise
In by-gone years, and poet last who sang
Thy glory—O eternal Pilot speak!
As mute thou art as mighty and sublime,
Like unto all that’s great and strong and good—
Forever still midst Surrey’s joyful hills;
Yet to men thou bringest a message deep;
To Indian, symbol of the Spirit Great;
To me, the varied, potent word of God.
[Illustration: A View of “Big Pinnacle” on Pilot Mountain, in Surrey
County, N. C. Picture by the Author.]
Majestic lord of all, to thee on high,
The struggling towns appear as vying dwarfs;
The rivers like to circling, creeping snakes;
Valleys, rich and broad, thy gardens are
Imperial—and all thine honors sing.
Sons of chiefs long vanquished played and danced
Before thy face; again the fathers prayed,
Their plea ascending, swift as thought, to Him
Who guided Abram ’mongst Judean hills.
What heart-breaks knowest thou of sire and son?
Of lover and beloved, of hate and hope?
Deepest depths and uplift to the heights?
I hear the music of thy hidden heart,
Sorrow’s song, in-wrought with joy that’s pure,
The process endless of the urging Cross—
A lofty peak of virtue and of peace
Art thou, O Jomeokee!