Awake, awake! for my track is red, | |
With the glow of the coming day; | |
And with tinkling tread, from my dusty bed, | |
I haste o’er the hills away, | |
Up from the valley, up from the plain, | 5 |
Up from the river’s side; | |
For I come with a gush, and a torrent’s rush, | |
And there’s wealth in my swelling tide. | |
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I am fed by the melting rills that start | |
Where the sparkling snow-peaks gleam, | 10 |
My voice is free, and with fiercest glee | |
I leap in the sun’s broad beam; | |
Tho’ torn from the channels deep and old, | |
I have worn through the craggy hill, | |
Yet I flow in pride, as my waters glide, | 15 |
And there’s mirth in my music still. | |
|
I sought the shore of the sounding sea, | |
From the far Sierra’s hight, | |
With a starry breast, and a snow-capped crest | |
I foamed in a path of light; | 20 |
But they bore me thence in a winding way, | |
The’ve fettered me like a slave, | |
And as scarfs of old were exchanged for gold, | |
So they barter my soil-stained wave. | |
|
Thro’ the deep tunnel, down the dark shaft, | 25 |
I search for the shining ore; | |
Hoist it away to the light of day, | |
Which it never has seen before. | |
Spade and shovel, mattock and pick, | |
Ply them with eager haste; | 30 |
For my golden shower is sold by the hour, | |
And the drops are too dear to waste. | |
|
Lift me aloft to the mountain’s brow, | |
Fathom the deep “blue vein,” | |
And I’ll sift the soil for the shining spoil, | 35 |
As I sink to the valley again. | |
The swell of my swarthy breast shall bear | |
Pebble and rock away, | |
Though they brave my strength, they shall yield at length, | |
But the glittering gold shall stay. | 40 |
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Mine is no stern and warrior march, | |
No stormy trump and drum; | |
No banners gleam in my darkened stream, | |
As with conquering step I come; | |
But I touch the tributary earth | 45 |
Till it owns a monarch’s sway, | |
And with eager hand, from a conquered land, | |
I bear its wealth away. | |
|
Awake, awake! there are living hearts | |
In the lands you’ve left afar; | 50 |
There are tearful eyes in the homes you prize | |
As they gaze on the western star; | |
Then up from the valley, up from the hill, | |
Up from the river’s side; | |
For I come with a gush, and a torrent’s rush, | 55 |
And there’s wrath in my swelling tide. | |
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