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Yet whenever I cross the river

On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean

Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands

Of care-encumbered men,
Each bearing his burden of sorrow,

Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession

Still passing to and fro,
The young heart hot and restless,

And the old subdued and slow!

And forever and forever,

As long as the river flows,
As long as the heart has passions,

As long as life has woes ;

The moon and its broken reflection

And its shadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in heaven,

And its wavering image here.

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Gloomy and dark art thou, O chief of the mighty Omawhaws;
Gloomy and dark, as the driving cloud, whose name thou hast taken !
Wrapt in thy scarlet blanket, I see thee stalk through the city's
Narrow and populous streets, as once by the margin of rivers
Stalked those birds unknown, that have left us only their footprints.
What, in a few short years, will remain of thy race but the footprints ?

How canst thou walk in these streets, who hast trod the green turf of the

prairies? How canst thou breathe in this air, who hast breathed the sweet air of the

mountains ? Ah! 'tis in vain that with lordly looks of disdain thou dost challenge Looks of dislike in return, and question these walls and these pavements, Claiming the soil for thy hunting-grounds, while down-trodden millions Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too, Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division !

Back, then, back to thy woods in the regions west of the Wabash !
There as a monarch thou reignest. In autumn the leaves of the maple
Pave the floors of thy palace-halls with gold, and in summer
Pine-trees waft through its chambers the odorous breath of their branches.
There thou art strong and great, a hero, a tamer of horses !
There thou chasest the stately stag on the banks of the Elk-horn,
Or by the roar of the Running-Water, or where the Omawhaw
Calls thee, and leaps through the wild ravine like a brave of the Blackfeet!
Hark! what murmurs arise from the heart of those mountainous deserts?
Is it the cry of the Foxes and Crows, or the mighty Behemoth,
Who, unharmed, on his tusks once caught the bolts of the thunder,
And now lurks in his lair to destroy the race of the red man?
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the Crows and the Foxes,
Far more fatal to thee and thy race than the tread of Behemoth,
Lo! the big thunder-canoe, that steadily breasts the Missouri's
Merciless current ! and yonder, afar on the prairies, the camp-fires
Gleam through the night; and the cloud of dust in the gray of the daybreak
Marks not the buffalo's track, nor the Mandan's dexterous horse-race ;
It is a caravan, whitening the desert where dwell the Camanches !
Ha ! how the breath of these Saxons and Celts, like the blast of the east-wind,
Drifts evermore to the west the scanty smokes of thy wigwams !

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When descends on the Atlantic

The gigantic
Storm-wind of the equinox,
Landward in his wrath he scourges

The toiling surges,
Laden with sea-weed from the rocks :

From Bermuda's reefs ; from edges

Of sunken ledges,
In some far-off, bright Azore;
From Bahama, and the dashing,

Surges of San Salvador ;

From the tumbling surf, that buries

The Orkneyan skerries, Answering the hoarse Hebrides;

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And from wrecks of ships, and drifting

Spars, uplifting
On the desolate, rainy seas ;-

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting

On the shifting
Currents of the restless main ;
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches

Of sandy beaches,
All have found repose again.

So when storms of wild emotion

Strike the ocean
Of the poet's soul, ere long
From each cave and rocky fastness,

In its vastness,
Floats some fragment of a song :

From the far-off isles enchanted,

Heaven has planted
With the golden fruit of Truth;
From the flashing surf, whose vision

Gleams Elysian
In the tropic clime of Youth ;

From the strong Will, and the Endeavour

That forever
Wrestles with the tides of Fate ;
From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered,

Floating waste and desolate ;-

Ever drifting, drifting, drifting

On the shifting
Currents of the restless heart;
Till at length in books recorded,

They, like hoarded
Household words, no more depart.

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