Songs of two centuries :: :: University of Virginia Library

I am marching to the sea—
To my king, the mighty sea;
In his tent he waits for me—
In his tent, with walls of blue,
Decked with flags of brightest hue,
In his starlit, sunlit tent,
O'er the head in splendor bent.

I have messages in store,
For my king, the mighty sea:
Great Superior's solemn word,
Huron's answering voice is heard.
Erie's shelving walls of land,
Clad with wealth and comfort o'er;
Stern Niagara's thunder-pour,
Great Ontario's prosperous strand
Decked with city-pictures grand—
All send messages by me,
To their king, the mighty sea.

All my treasures I must leave—
All my thousand tree-fringed isles,
All my shore-hills clad in smiles—
All the shadows that they weave,
All my woods, with eyes of blue,
All the cottages of white,

Bathed in dim reflected light;
Would that I might take them too,
Floating eastward down with me,
For an offering to the sea!

Stately ships with plumes of black,
Follow on my gleaming track;
Villages with sails of white,
Decked with banners brave and bright;
Funeral-trains of forest-trees,

This line refers to the rafts of logs that are each season taken down the St. Lawrence River. They are very striking and picturesque, with broad expanses of fallen trees, lashed securely together, and suggesting great floating islands of wood.

Journey with me to the seas—
Travel with me toward the main—
March amid my glittering train.

Down the rapid's giddy stair
Rush I headlong as in fear;
Past the crags that linger there—
Past th' old gray rock's constant sneer,
To my death-like, deathless fate,
Where my lord and king doth wait.
Panic-struck, I rush and rave,
As some mortals toward the grave,
Rush and rave and hurry on,
With my task no nearer won.
But or tranquil or in haste,
Frowning wild or placid-faced,
Eastward still my soul is set:
I am loyal, even yet!

Times, in broad blue lakes I tarry,
Kept in couches soft and low;
Lulled to sleep as if by fairy,
Breeze-caresses sweep my brow.
Sun-caresses thrill my soul,
Shadow-hands my ways control;
In the night's unlaughing glee,
Stars come out and smile at me;
Zephyrs from the wooded west,
Pause awhile, with me to rest.
“Here”, I plead, “that I might stay
Many a night and many a day!”

But the cry is “Onward! On!”
Never, till my journey's done,
Can I tarry well or long,
Can I hush my marching-song.
I am marching to the sea—
To my king, the mighty sea;
In his tent he waits for me,
In his tent, with walls of blue,
Decked with flags of brightest hue
In his starlit, sunlit tent,
O'er the head in splendor bent;
On his calm, majestic breast,
I will lie, in changeful rest.