St. Lawrence and the Saguenay, The - Part 57
The billowy River rolls its proudest wave,
The zephyrs have fled, dancing, o'er the hills,
And the winds tread the waters, wildly-grave,
Like the Storm-Harpists gliding down the rills
Of their own native mountains, 'gainst their wills.
Brighter the moon above us; brighter all
The patient stars, whose pensive beauty thrills
Our yearning souls, like distant tones that fall
On waiting ears hearkening for an Angel's call.
The zephyrs have fled, dancing, o'er the hills,
And the winds tread the waters, wildly-grave,
Like the Storm-Harpists gliding down the rills
Of their own native mountains, 'gainst their wills.
Brighter the moon above us; brighter all
The patient stars, whose pensive beauty thrills
Our yearning souls, like distant tones that fall
On waiting ears hearkening for an Angel's call.
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