Classic Poem

Out of the brooding midnight,
Out of the peering morn,
Out of the spacious noonday,
These mystic words were born;
As with the rush of triumph,
Rhythm and rune, they came,
Touched with the torch of wonder,
Swept with the wings of flame.

AND THE WATERS OF THE MOHAWK SPAKE::
We are the singing children, —
Lilt and ripple and run, —
Wrought of the opal dewdrops,
Shaped of the rain and sun;
Sprung from the gray cloud-streamers,
Pulse of the under earth,
Rousing the roots of being,
Kindling the shoots of birth;
Lyric, loving and lavish,
Free as the wind is free,
We yield our wealth to the Hudson,
And the Hudson yields to the sea!

AND THE HILLS OF THE MOHAWK SPAKE::
We are the heights God moulded,
We are the heights He planned,
In days when the world was virgin,
And marvel lay on the land;
Still on our crests the glory
Rests as it did of old;
Still on our slopes gleams beauty, —
Crimson and green and gold;
Now through our open gateways
Opulent commerce pours;
We are the ancient genii
Guarding the Mohawk shores!

AND THE MEADOWS OF THE MOHAWK SPAKE::
We are the long low levels,
Reaches of fertile loam,
Lush at the kiss of springtime,
Rich when the year goes home;
Ours are the breadth and bounty, —
Span upon sweeping span, —
That, through the harvest-magic,
Work for the weal of man.
Clothed with the winter's ermine.
Sown with the summer's flowers,
Ours are thy garths, Oneida!
Herkimer's fields are ours!

AND THE VOICES OF THE PAST SPAKE::
We are the wraiths long gathered
Into the bourn of sleep,
Into the aisles of silence
Deep as the dusk is deep; —
Men of the smoking teepees,
Of arrow and bow and spear;
Ranger and cabin-builder,
Rover and pioneer.
We are the patriot yeomen
Of brawn and bravery
Who faced the tide of conflict
At red Oriskany;
We are the men who travailed
To shape and save the State,
Who gave their strength and substance
Ungrudging long and late.
The leash of love still holds us;
Our spirits would not roam;
Here, by the hallowed Mohawk,
Forevermore is home!

AND THE VOICES OF THE PRESENT SPAKE::
We are the heirs of freedom,
The sons of rugged sires,
Who reared in the wild waste places
The shrines for their worship-fires;
The Dutch, the Celt, and the Saxon,
Of the old stanch wander-strain,

We are stringing our gem-like cities
On the Mohawk's silver chain.
Gyve — there is none to bind us;
Fear — there is none to thrall;
Only the wide horizon,
Only the sky's blue wall!
Ours are the scenes elysian
That gird us, fair and free;
Ours are the vasts of vision
Into the great To-Be!
Ours is the noblest banner
The sun has seen unfurled,
First flung upon God's pure breezes
In this garden of the world!

Out of the brooding midnight,
Out of the peering morn,
Out of the spacious noonday,
These mystic words were born;
As with the rush of triumph,
Rhythm and rune, they came,
Touched with torch of wonder,
Swept with the wings of flame!