Part 4 (2/2)

I have wooed you so, But never a favour you bestow.

You rock your cradle the hills between, But scorn to notice my white lateen.

I stow the sail, uns.h.i.+p the mast: I wooed you long but my wooing's past; My paddle will lull you into rest.

O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west, Sleep, sleep, By your mountain steep, Or down where the prairie gra.s.ses sweep!

Now fold in slumber your laggard wings, For soft is the song my paddle sings.

August is laughing across the sky, Laughing while paddle, canoe and I, Drift, drift, Where the hills uplift On either side of the current swift.

The river rolls in its rocky bed; My paddle is plying its way ahead; Dip, dip, While the waters flip In foam as over their breast we slip.

And oh, the river runs swifter now; The eddies circle about my bow.

Swirl, swirl!

How the ripples curl In many a dangerous pool awhirl!

And forward far the rapids roar, Fretting their margin for evermore.

Dash, dash, With a mighty crash, They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.

Be strong, O paddle! be brave, canoe!

The reckless waves you must plunge into.

Reel, reel.

On your trembling keel, But never a fear my craft will feel.

We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead!

The river slips through its silent bed.

Sway, sway, As the bubbles spray And fall in tinkling tunes away.

And up on the hills against the sky, A fir tree rocking its lullaby, Swings, swings, Its emerald wings, Swelling the song that my paddle sings.

THE CAMPER

Night 'neath the northern skies, lone, black, and grim: Naught but the starlight lies 'twixt heaven, and him.

Of man no need has he, of G.o.d, no prayer; He and his Deity are brothers there.

Above his bivouac the firs fling down Through branches gaunt and black, their needles brown.

Afar some mountain streams, rockbound and fleet, Sing themselves through his dreams in cadence sweet,

The pine trees whispering, the heron's cry, The plover's pa.s.sing wing, his lullaby.

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