The breeze is blowing fresh and strong;

The rocking shallop chafes its chain,

And the billows are breaking in swells of song,

That call me forth to the deep again:

A fiery charger paws the sand;

A hound looks up with watching eye,

To scour the forest and valley land,

And bay with the winds on the mountain high!

Let horns be heard in the gray ravine,

And stormy songs from off the sea!

There’s blood in my heart, where tears had been,^[1]

And the blood of Youth is bold and free!

Leave, weary Soul, the hermit-lore

Which kept this arm from the Life of Earth—

Lie down to rest on the quiet shore,

While the dust, exulting, marches forth!

Thou hast wasted weak and pale, oh frame,

That once wert ruddy as the dawn!

But the Earth, thy mother, is filled with flame,

Whose sturdy warmth to thee has gone.

Thy locks shall toss on the mountain air—

Thy limbs shall cool in the sparkling brine;

She will brace thy nerves with her forest-fare,

And warm thy veins with generous wine!

Thy loins shall grow to a pard-like power,

On the wild slopes of craggy hills;

Thou shalt bore thy breast to the arrowy shower,

And catch in thine arms the icy rills:

Thy vigorous blood shall exult the same,

When fevered cares in the spirit start,

As a pine, when the mountain is swathed in flame,

Keeps green and fresh in his spicy heart!

Thou shalt go where the battle clarions blare,

With the fierce, heroic rage of old;

The lust of the soldier thy brow shall wear—

Thy heart shall swell like a banner’s fold.

In the shrieking hail thou shalt stand, my frame,

Nor shrink from the path of thine arm’s employ,

When the thews are steel and the veins are flame,

And Death to thee is a terrible joy!

Then, tighten the girth and loose the rein!

Unleash the keen, impatient hound,

And deep in the seething foam again

Let every quivering oar be drowned!

We will rock on the ocean’s solemn roll,

Or follow the charging music’s mirth,

And the vine’s bright blood shall crown the bowl

That brims for us with the Life of Earth!