OR A
ER
AL AT
HE
LS" ON
HE
AC.
Once more on yonder laurelled
The summer flowers have budded;
Once more with summer's golden
The vales of home are flooded;
And once more, by the grace of
Of every good the Giver,
We sing upon its wooded
The praises of our river,
Its pines above, its waves below,
The west-wind down it blowing,
As fair as when the young
Beheld it seaward flowing,--And bore its memory o'er the deep,
To soothe a martyr's sadness,
And fresco, hi his troubled sleep,
His prison-walls with gladness.
We know the world is rich with
Renowned in song and story,
Whose music murmurs through our
Of human love and
We know that Arno's banks are fair,
And Rhine has castled shadows,
And, poet-tuned, the Doon and
Go singing down their meadows.
But while, unpictured and
By painter or by poet,
Our river waits the tuneful
And cunning hand to show it,--We only know the fond skies
Above it, warm with blessing,
And the sweet soul of our
Awakes to our caressing.
No fickle sun-god holds the
That graze its shores in keeping;
No icy kiss of Dian
The youth beside it
Our Christian river loveth
The beautiful and human;
The heathen streams of Naiads boast,
But ours of man and woman.
The miner in his cabin
The ripple we are hearing;
It whispers soft to homesick
Around the settler's
In Sacramento's vales of corn,
Or Santee's bloom of cotton,
Our river by its
Was never yet forgotten.
The drum rolls loud, the bugle
The summer air with clangor;
The war-storm shakes the solid
Beneath its tread of anger;
Young eyes that last year smiled in
Now point the rifle's barrel,
And hands then stained with fruits and
Bear redder stains of quarrel.
But blue skies smile, and flowers bloom on,
And rivers still keep flowing,
The dear God still his rain and
On good and ill bestowing.
His pine-trees whisper, "Trust and wait!"His flowers are
That all we dread of change or
His live is underlying.
And thou,
O Mountain-born!--no
We ask the wise
Than for the firmness of thy shore,
The calmness of thy water,
The cheerful lights that overlay,
Thy rugged slopes with beauty,
To match our spirits to our
And make a joy of duty.
