| |
| THE ROLL of drums and the bugle’s wailing | |
| Vex the air of our vales no more; | |
| The spear is beaten to hooks of pruning, | |
| The share is the sword the soldier wore! | |
| |
| Sing soft, sing low, our lowland river, | 5 |
| Under thy banks of laurel bloom; | |
| Softly and sweet, as the hour beseemeth, | |
| Sing us the songs of peace and home. | |
| |
| Let all the tenderer voices of nature | |
| Temper the triumph and chasten mirth, | 10 |
| Full of the infinite love and pity | |
| For fallen martyr and darkened hearth. | |
| |
| But to Him who gives us beauty for ashes, | |
| And the oil of joy for mourning long, | |
| Let thy hills give thanks, and all thy waters | 15 |
| Break into jubilant waves of song! | |
| |
| Bring us the airs of hills and forests, | |
| The sweet aroma of birch and pine, | |
| Give us a waft of the north-wind laden | |
| With sweetbrier odors and breath of kine! | 20 |
| |
| Bring us the purple of mountain sunsets, | |
| Shadows of clouds that rake the hills, | |
| The green repose of thy Plymouth meadows, | |
| The gleam and ripple of Campton rills. | |
| |
| Lead us away in shadow and sunshine, | 25 |
| Slaves of fancy, through all thy miles, | |
| The winding ways of Pemigewasset, | |
| And Winnipisaukee’s hundred isles. | |
| |
| Shatter in sunshine over thy ledges, | |
| Laugh in thy plunges from fall to fall; | 30 |
| Play with thy fringes of elms, and darken | |
| Under the shade of the mountain wall. | |
| |
| The cradle-song of thy hillside fountains | |
| Here in thy glory and strength repeat; | |
| Give us a taste of thy upland music, | 35 |
| Show us the dance of thy silver feet. | |
| |
| Into thy dutiful life of uses | |
| Pour the music and weave the flowers; | |
| With the song of birds and bloom of meadows | |
| Lighten and gladden thy heart and ours. | 40 |
| |
| Sing on! bring down, O lowland river, | |
| The joy of the hills to the waiting sea; | |
| The wealth of the vales, the pomp of mountains, | |
| The breath of the woodlands, bear with thee. | |
| |
| Here, in the calm of thy seaward valley, | 45 |
| Mirth and labor shall hold their truce; | |
| Dance of water and mill of grinding, | |
| Both are beauty and both are use. | |
| |
| Type of the Northland’s strength and glory, | |
| Pride and hope of our home and race,— | 50 |
| Freedom lending to rugged labor | |
| Tints of beauty and lines of grace. | |
| |
| Once again, O beautiful river, | |
| Hear our greetings and take our thanks; | |
| Hither we come, as Eastern pilgrims | 55 |
| Throng to the Jordan’s sacred banks. | |
| |
| For though by the Master’s feet untrodden, | |
| Though never his word has stilled thy waves, | |
| Well for us may thy shores be holy, | |
| With Christian altars and saintly graves. | 60 |
| |
| And well may we own thy hint and token | |
| Of fairer valleys and streams than these, | |
| Where the rivers of God are full of water, | |
| And full of sap are his healing trees! | |
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