Below the overhanging boughs The oars laid idle at the last. Yet long he look'd for hostile prows From out the wood and down the stream.
They came not, and he came to dream Pursuit abandon'd, danger past. He fell'd the oak, he built a home Of new-hewn wood with busy hand,
And said, “My wanderings are told.” And said, “No more by sea, by land, Shall I break rest, or drift, or roam, For I am worn, and I grow old.”
And there, beside that surging tide, Where gray waves meet, and wheel, and strike, The man sat down as satisfied To sit and rest unto the end;
As if the strong man here had found A sort of brother in this sea,— This surging, sounding majesty Of troubled water, so profound,
So sullen, strong, and lion-like, So sinuous and foamy bound. Hast seen Missouri cleave the wood In sounding whirlpools to the sea?
What soul hath known such majesty? What man stood by and understood? By pleasant Omaha I stood, Beneath a fringe of mailed wood,
And watch'd the mighty waters heave, And surge, and strike, and wind, and weave And make strange sounds and mutterings, As if of dark unutter'd things.
By pleasant high-built Omaha I stand. The waves beneath me run All stain'd and yellow, dark and dun, And deep as death's sweet mystery,—
A thousand Tibers roll'd in one. I count on other years. I draw The curtain from the scenes to be. I see another Rome. I see
A Caesar tower in the land, And take her in his iron hand. I see a throne, a king, a crown, A high-built capital thrown down.
I see my river rise... Away! The world's cold commerce of to-day Demands some idle flippant theme;
And I, your minstrel, must sit by, And harp along the edge of morn, And sing and celebrate to please The multitude, the mob, and these
They know not pearls from yellow corn. Yea, idly sing or silent dream; My harp, my hand is yours, but I — My soul moves down that sounding stream.
Adieu, dun, mighty stream, adieu! Adown thine wooded walls, inwrought With rose of Cherokee and vine, Was never heard a minstrel's note,
And none would heed a song of mine. I find expression for my thought In other themes.... List! I have seen A grizzly sporting on the green
Of west sierras with a goat, And finding pastime all day through.... O sounding, swift Missouri, born Of Rocky Mountains, and begot
On bed of snow at birth of morn, Of thunder-storms and elements That reign where puny man comes not, With fountain-head in fields of gold,
And wide arms twining wood and wold, And everlasting snowy tents,— I hail you from the Orients. Shall I return to you once more?
Shall take occasion by the throat And thrill with wild AEolian note? Shall sit and sing by your deep shore? Shall shape a reed and pipe of yore
And wake old melodies made new, And thrill thine leaf-land through and through?
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