I see my river rise ... Away! The world's cold commerce of to-day Demands some idle flippant theme; And I, your minstrel, must sit by, And harp along the edge of morn, And sing and celebrate to please The multitude, the mob, and these They know not pearls from yellow corn. Yea, idly sing or silent dreàm; My harp, my hand is yours, but I-- My soul moves down that sounding stream. Adieu, dun, mighty stream, adieu! Adown thine wooded walls, inwrought With rose of Cherokee and vine, Was never heard a minstrel's note, And none would heed a song of mine. I find expression for my thought In other themes.... List! I have seen A grizzly sporting on the green Of west sierras with a goat, And finding pastime all day through.... O sounding, swift Missouri, born Of Rocky Mountains, and begot On bed of snow at birth of morn, Of thunder-storms and elements That reign where puny man comes not, With fountain-head in fields of gold, And wide arms twining wood and wold, And everlasting snowy tents,-- I hail you from the Orients. Shall I return to you once more? Shall take occasion by the throat And thrill with wild Æolian note? Shall sit and sing by your deep shore? Shall shape a reed and pipe of yore And wake old melodies made new, And thrill thine leaf-land through and through? VII. Then long the long oars idle lay. The cabin's smoke came forth and curl'd Right lazily from river brake, And Time went by the other way. And who was she, the strong man's pride? This one fair woman of the world. A captive? Bride, or not a bride? Her eyes, men say, grew sad and dim With watching from the river's rim, As waiting for some face denied. And yet she never wept or spake, Or breath'd his name for her love's sake. Yea, who was she?--none ever knew. The great strong river swept around, The cabins nestled in its bend, But kept its secrets. Wild birds flew In bevies by. The black men found Diversion in the chase: and wide Old Morgan ranged the wood, nor friend, Nor foeman ever at his side Or shared his forests deep and dim, Or cross'd his path or question'd him. He stood as one who found and named The middle world. What visions flamed Athwart the west! What prophecies Were his, the gray old man, that day Who stood alone and look'd away,-- Awest from out the waving trees, Against the utter sundown seas. Alone oft-time beside the stream He stood and gazed as in a dream, As if he knew a life unknown To those who knew him thus alone. His eyes were gray and overborne By shaggy brows, his strength was shorn, Yet still he ever gazed awest, As one who would not, could not rest.