Rush a thousand fond memories forth,
And cluster around thy light step to detain—
Oh! come to our home in the North!
They tell you how bleak is our northern sky
When the storm-spirit spreadeth his wings;
How his shout is heard from the mountain high,
How in glee thro’ the valley it rings:
How his strong hand bows the proud old oak,
And in sport uprooteth the pine;
How he folds the hills in his spotless cloak,