  [Image unavailable.] J. G. Whittier Out and in the river is winding The links of its long red chain, Through belts of dusky pine-land And gusty leagues of plain. Only at times a smoke-wreath With the drifting cloud-rack joins,— The smoke of the hunting-lodges Of the wild Assiniboins! Drearily blows the north wind From the land of ice and snow; The eyes that look are weary, And heavy the hands that row. And with one foot on the water, And one upon the shore, The Angel of Shadow gives warning That day shall be no more. 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! |
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