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     Our river by its valley-born
Was never yet forgotten.

The drum rolls loud, the bugle fills
     The summer air with clangor;
The war-storm shakes the solid hills
     Beneath its tread of anger;
Young eyes that last year smiled in ours
     Now point the rifle's barrel,
And hands then stained with fruits and flowers
     Bear redder stains of quarrel.

But blue skies smile, and flowers bloom on,
     And rivers still keep flowing,
The dear God still his rain and sun
     On good and ill bestowing.
His pine-trees whisper, ‘Trust and wait!’
     His flowers are prophesying
That all we dread of change or fate
     His love is underlying.

And thou, O Mountain-born!—no more
     We ask the wise Allotter
Than for the firmness of thy shore,
     The calmness of thy water,
The cheerful lights that overlay
     Thy rugged slopes with beauty,
To match our spirits to our day
     And make a joy of duty.


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1861 AD (1)
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