The clear Assiniboine winds free
Through many a fertile vale;
The antlered deer and graceful hind
Bound o'er the wooded dale;
But I miss the quiet rural scenes—
The farm-house, thatched and grey,
That memory fondly pictures now
Of the Green Isle, far away.
The Sabbath morn its holy calm
Breathes o'er the prairie lands,
And the answering heart hears Nature's psalm
And the wild woods clap their hands.
But I long to hear the church bell's sound
Tell to these wilds that day,
When thousands meet to praise and pray
In the Green Isle far away.
Here life lays hold of brighter things
For the fair years to be,
But the deathless Past and all her dreams,
Old land, belong to thee!
The buried love, the buried hope
Of youth's glad summer day,
That blend with unforgotten scenes
Of the Green Isle, far away.
And while we love this pleasant land
And own it good and fair,
Our hearts' first love goes backward
And fondly lingers there—
Back to the dear home country,
Then forward to that day
When all shall meet together,
From the Green Isle pass'd away.
SONG.
"In the gloaming Oh, my darling."
Oh! green-bosomed Isle, as the summer day's gloaming,
Lies dreamy and dun on the prairie's wild breast
There my worn, wayward heart o'er the wild waves is roaming
Far, far to the scenes that are dearest and best.
As by bluff and by woodland, by swamp and by meadow,
The gloom gathers round in its dim, mystic pall,
Then my fancies come forth, spirit-children of shadow,
Slow gliding from haunts where the lone night-birds call.
When the wind, ardent lover, in songful caressing,
Speaks low to the grasses that bend to his breath,
And the dew woos the rose with the balm of its blessing
And steals it with love from the shadow of death.
Then I seek the wild glen, when the new moon is beaming
All weirdly and wan, through a cloud's fleecy haze,
'Till I stand, young and free, in the land of my dreaming,
Clasping hands with the phantoms of happier days.