And we must away down the river.

Oh! the hum and the toil of the river;

The ridge of the rapid sprays and skips:

Loud and low by the water's lips,

Tearing the wet pines into strips,

[Pg 11]

The saw mill is moaning ever.

The little grey sparrow skips and calls

On the rocks in the rain of the water falls,

And the logs are adrift in the river.

Oh! restlessly whirls the river;

The rivulets run and the cataract drones:

The spiders are flitting over the stones:

Summer winds float and the cedar moans;

And the eddies gleam and quiver.

O sun, shine hot, shine long and abide

In the glory and power of thy summer tide

On the swift longing face of the river.

WHY DO YE CALL THE POET LONELY.

Why do ye call the poet lonely,

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