Stand we awhile at gaze, far-scanning the roads and the ridges,
Doubtful that such things were.
Oh, sweet with the wafts of the wildrose,
Sweet is the breath of the summer, the hushed spirit lapping and lulling!
Man feels near to the kind red earth; as her nursling she draws him
Close, ah close, to the fragrant warmth of her Indian bosom.
Deep he drinks of life; and death is a dream in the distance.
Rare is the sweet of the summer; the good world’s bounty and beauty
Such as they saw and lost, who bought us our peace with their passion.
Such, on the great Three Days of the great Third Year of the war-time,