English

Come, I will make the continent indissoluble,
I will make the most splendid race the sun ever shone
upon,
I will make divine magnetic lands,
With the love of comrades,
With the life-long love of comrades.

I will plant companionship thick as trees along all the
rivers of America, and
along the shores of the great lakes, and all over the
prairies,
I will make inseparable cities with their arms about
each other's necks,
By the love of comrades,
By the manly love of comrades.

The clear bright morning, with its scented air,
And gaily waving flowers, is here again;
Man's heart is lifted with the voice of prayer,
And peace descends, as falls the gentle rain;
The tuneful birds, that all the night have slept,
Take up, at dawn, the evening's dying lay;
When sleep upon their eyelids gently crept,
And stole, with stealthy craft, their song away.
High overhead the forest's swaying boughs
Sprinkle with drops the traveller on his way
He hears afar the bells of tinkling cows,

Cold is the north wind,
the snow falls thick
If you are kind and love me,
take my hand and we'll go together
You are modest, you are slow,
but oh, we must hurry!

Fierce is the north wind,
the snow falls fast.
If you are kind and love me,
take my hand and we'll go home together
You are modest, you are slow,
but oh, we must hurry!

Nothing redder than the fox,
nothing blacker than the crow.
If you are kind and love me,
take my hand and we'll ride together
You are modest, you are slow,

Clouds that drift so far and free
I'd ask to bear my message,
but their whirling shapes accept no charge;
wandering, halting, I long in vain
Those who part all meet once more;
you alone send no word of return
Since you went away,
my shining mirror darkens with neglect
Thoughts of you are like the flowing river —
when will they ever end?

A CLOUD of dust on the long, white road,
And the teams go creeping on
Inch by inch with the weary load;
And by the power of the green-hide goad
The distant goal is won.

With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust,
And necks to the yokes bent low,
The beasts are pulling as bullocks must;
And the shining tires might almost rust
While the spokes are turning slow.

With face half-hid by a broad-brimmed hat,
That shades from the heat's white waves,
And shouldered whip, with its green-hide plait,

The cold moon hangs to the sky by its horn,
And centres its gaze on me;
The stars, like eyes in reverie,
Their westering as for a while forborne,
Quiz downward curiously.

Old Robert draws the backbrand in,
The green logs steam and spit;
The half-awakened sparrows flit
From the riddled thatch; and owls begin
To whoo from the gable-slit.

Yes; far and nigh things seem to know
Sweet scenes are impending here;
That all is prepared; that the hour is near
For welcomes, fellowships, and flow

Clouds spout upon her
Their waters amain
In ruthless disdain,--
Her who but lately
Had shivered with pain
As at touch of dishonour
If there had lit on her
So coldly, so straightly
Such arrows of rain.

She who to shelter
Her delicate head
Would quicken and quicken
Each tentative tread
If drops chanced to pelt her
That summertime spills
In dust-paven rills
When thunder-clouds thicken
And birds close their bills.

Would that I lay there
And she were housed here!

Close up the casement, draw the blind,
Shut out that stealing moon,
She wears too much the guise she wore
Before our lutes were strewn
With years-deep dust, and names we read
On a white stone were hewn.

Step not forth on the dew-dashed lawn
To view the Lady's Chair,
Immense Orion's glittering form,

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
 ‘Now they are all on their knees,’
An elder said as we sat in a flock
 By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where
 They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
 To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave
 In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
 ‘Come; see the oxen kneel

‘In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
 Our childhood used to know,’

Come to me God; but do not come
To me, as to the gen'rall Doome,
In power; or come Thou in that state,
When Thou Thy Lawes didst promulgate,
When as the Mountaine quak'd for dread,
And sullen clouds bound up his head.
No, lay thy stately terrours by,
To talke with me familiarly;
For if Thy thunder-claps I heare,
I shall lesse swoone, then die for feare.
Speake thou of love and I'le reply
By way of Epithalamie ,
Or sing of mercy , and I'le suit
To it my Violl and my Lute:
Thus let Thy lips but love distill,