From lang'rous south seas that creep,
These odors dank issue forth,
Odors of sun-steeped brine—
It comes! a breeze from a deep,
Full-fed from seas of the North,
A waft of Vikings' wine!
Now beats the pulse of the flood,
The throbbings deep of a heart
Felt all around the world;
Now smites its rhythm with a thud,—
With ictus sure of its art
That mountains huge has hurled.
The unsouled rivers and creeks
Have being, have life to the full,
Into their mouths rebreathed,
As heaves the broad breast that seeks
T' embosom each leaning hull,
Bare on red banks tide-seethed.
The iron gride of the flow
Powders the rocks in its path,
And bears the dust afar
To build their urns, where may grow
Sweet grasses and "primrose rathe,"—
Fair Grand Pré, Tantramar!
III.
Builder, unbuilder of shores,
Thresher of cliffs vapor-stoled,
God's masterworkman strong!
Yet on thy bosom the oars
Of sailor lads ply and fold
To sweet refrains of song.
And glad in thy twinkling smiles,
Awing, like sea-gulls, the ships
Are breasting stout the breeze,—
Ah me, thy treacherous wiles!
Witching fog-wraiths draping rips!
Currents of iron seas!
IV.
O Fundy, deep-breathing sea,
Regal in power and rimmed
In hollow of His hand,
Captive to beauty, yet free,
Sleep now, thy Basin is brimmed
In fair Acadian land!
Haloed with pearl-raying rings
The moon, at her utmost poised,
Looks on her silver shield;
And the tide wakens and swings—
Ebbs with a clangor far noised
And wheeling wings afield.