_Second Picket_. Comrade, spare your brains, And take your orders. [_Exeunt_ Pickets.] _Father Hudson_. Daughters of the sky, ye clouds of the morning, Replenishers of my veins, ye purple, wandering clouds! And you, ye waves that lap my feet, far-traveling, restless, endlessly moving! Thralls of the circling ocean, waves of the sea-- Attend your Father Hudson, the Ageless, the Majestic! Calling to you, his sons and daughters, summoning you at his need. Stoop, daughters of ether, ye clouds of the mountains! Rise, sons of the sea, most ancient retainers, Flow towards your father's need! the River calls-- Father Hudson summons his children. [_Enter simultaneously_ Chorus of Waves, (_men_) _on one side, and on the other,_ Chorus of Clouds (_women_). _They flock slowly into the orchestra, approaching each other, and sing as they assemble._] _Both Choruses_. Father Hudson, we are coming, we are streaming, we are foaming From the sky and from the earth, Down the mountains, Through the fountains, We are streaming, steaming forth; We, the children of your will, Born to serve you, and to fill All your banks and all your margin With the fulness of enlarging, With the plentitude of rivers, We, the generous water-givers, Overflowing, bubbling, swelling, Feed you with our rich upwelling. _Chorus of Men_. From Monadnock and Mount Washington-- And where the haughty deer on Hudson's Bay Sniffs the north wind, We bring you Mist. _Chorus of Women_. From the rank lowlands of the Delaware, And from the even margin of low sand, Where the Atlantic smites the continent, We bring you Salt. _Chorus of Men_. From Sicily and the Cumaean Cave, And from the mountains where Apollo's shafts Whitened the hillsides once, We bring you Thought. _Chorus of Women_. From the dark heart of man that scorns the light, From Wisdom, found in Meekness through Despair, We bring you Grief. _Both Choruses_. Haste to where our father dwells! We the movers, we the rovers, Come to your eternal dwelling. Ancient father, we will bring News and thought of everything, From the mossy citadels, And the cities of the sea; Timeworn tales of prophecy We are bringing in our singing To your newer Majesty. To your destiny belated, Young and unsophisticated, We, the children of the ages, Bring the solemn heritages,-- Force and Woe and Human Fate,-- Embittering your god-like state. Bitter is life! Bitter, bitter even to the gods, is life! _Father Hudson_. Sons and daughters, sole feeders of my life, By these new-coming white men I am destroyed. My feet are burned in Manhattan, my thighs in the Mohawk, While in the Adirondacks they blaze enduring ruin. [_The leaders speak, not sing, except as otherwise noted._] _Leader of Men_. Alas! little knows he that his kingdom is of nothing but of change and pain.