From the Cordilleran Highlands, From the Height of Land Far north. From the Lake of the Woods, From Rainy Lake, From Itasca's springs. From the snow and the ice Of the mountains, Breathed on by the sun, And given life, Awakened by kisses of fire, Moving, gliding as brightest hyaline Down the cliffs, Down the hills, Over the stones. Trickling as rills; Swiftly running as mountain brooks; Swirling through runnels of rock; Curving in spheréd silence Around the long worn walls of granite gorges; Storming through chasms; And flowing for miles in quiet over the Titan basin To the muddled waters of the mighty river, Himself obeying the call of the gulf, And the unfathomed urge of the sea! * * * * * Waters of mountain peaks, Spirits of liberty Leaving your pure retreats For work in the world. Soiling your crystal springs With the waste that is whirled to your breast as you run, Until you are foul as the crawling leviathan That devours you, And uses you to carry waste and earth For the making of land at the gulf, For the conquest of land for the feet of men. * * * * * De Soto, Marquette and La Salle Planting your cross in vain, Gaining neither gold nor ivory, Nor tribute For France or Spain. Making land alone For liberty! You could proclaim in the name of the cross The dominion of kings over a world that was new. But the river has altered its course: There are fertile fields For a thousand miles where the river flowed that you knew. And there are liberty and democracy For thousands of miles Where in the name of kings, and for the cross You tramped the tangles for treasure. * * * * *