Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/62

34 And now they hear the trump of judgment-day,

And now one silver note to heaven doth stray

And fluttering fall upon the golden sand.

But like the murmur of the distant sea

Their loud applause, and far off, faint, and weak

Sounds his own music to him, wild and free—

Far from the soul of music that doth speak

In wordless wail and lyric ecstasy

From that good viol prest against his cheek.

XI—"O MIGHTY RIVER, TRIUMPHING TO THE SEA"

river, triumphing to the sea,

Strong, calm, and solemn as thy mountains be!

Poets have sung thy ever-living power,

Thy wintry day, and summer sunset hour;

Have told how rich thou art, how broad, how deep;

What commerce thine, how many myriads reap

The harvest of thy waters. They have sung

Thy moony nights, when every shadow flung

From cliff or pine is peopled with dim ghosts

Of settlers, old-world fairies, or the hosts

Of savage warriors that once plowed thy waves—

Now hurrying to the dance from hidden graves;

The waving outline of thy wooded mountains,

Thy populous towns that stretch from forest fountains

On either side, far to the salty main,

Like golden coins alternate on a chain.

Thou pathway of the empire of the North,

Thy praises through the earth have traveled forth!

I hear thee praised as one who hears the shout

That follows when a hero from the rout

Of battle issues: "Lo, how brave is he,