On the river's bosom it fluttered,
And kissed and caressed all day,
And joys of the south it muttered:
But the tide kept its northern way.
Tender and chaste was its suing,
Till the face of the river-bride
Rippled and gleamed in the wooing:
But northward flowed the tide.
And so, thought I, God's graces
Woo our souls the livelong day,