Is it the clang of wild-geese?
Is it the Indian’s yell,
That lends to the voice of the north wind
The tones of a far-off bell?
The voyageur smiles as he listens
To the sound that grows apace;
Well he knows the vesper ringing
Of the bells of St. Boniface—
The bells of the Roman Mission,
That call from their turrets twain,
To the boatman on the river,
To the hunter on the plain!
Even so in our mortal journey
The bitter north winds blow,
And thus upon life’s Red River
Our hearts, as oarsmen, row.
And when the Angel of Shadow
Rests his feet on wave and shore,
And our eyes grow dim with watching,
And our hearts faint at the oar,
Happy is he who heareth
The signal of his release
In the bells of the Holy City,
The chimes of eternal peace!
—John Greenleaf Whittier.
SEVEN TIMES FOUR
Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
Fair yellow daffodils, stately and tall;
When the wind wakes, how they rock in the grasses,
And dance with the cuckoo-buds, slender and small;
Here’s two bonny boys, and here’s mother’s own lasses,
Eager to gather them all.
Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
Mother shall thread them a daisy-chain;
Sing them a song of the pretty hedge-sparrow,
That loved her brown little ones, loved them full fain;
Sing, “Heart thou art wide, though the house be but narrow”—
Sing once, and sing it again.
Heigh ho! daisies and buttercups,
Sweet wagging cowslips, they bend and they bow;
A ship sails afar over warm ocean waters,
And haply one missing doth stand at her prow.
O bonny brown sons, and O sweet little daughters,
Maybe he thinks of you now!