I On these swift waters borne along, A poet from the farther shore, Framed as he went his solemn song, And set it by the boatman's oar. II It was his being's law to sing From morning dawn to evening light; Like nature's choristers, his wing And voice were only still'd at night. III Nor did all nights bring him repose; For by the moon's auspicious ray, Like Philomela on her rose, His song eclipsed the songs of day. IV He came a stranger summer-bird, And quickly pass'd; but as he flew Our river's glorious song, he heard, His tongue was loosed—he warbled too! V And, mark the moral, ye who dream To be the poets of the land: He nowhere found a nobler theme Than you, ye favor'd, have at hand. VI Not in the storied Summer Isles, Not 'mid the classic Cyclades, Not where the Persian sun-god smiles, Found he more fitting theme than these. VII So, while the boat glides swift along, Behold above there looketh forth The star that lights the path of song— The constant star that loves the north. |