The Pilot in the Mist
The Pilot in the Mist
Steaming the northern rapids — (an old St Lawrence reminiscence,
A sudden memory-flash comes back, I know not why,
Here waiting for the sunrise, gazing from this hill;)
Again 'tis just at morning — a heavy haze contends with day-break,
Again the trembling, laboring vessel veers me — I press through foam-dash'd rocks that almost touch me,
Again I mark where aft the small thin Indian helmsman
Looms in the mist, with brow elate and governing hand.
Steaming the northern rapids — (an old St Lawrence reminiscence,
A sudden memory-flash comes back, I know not why,
Here waiting for the sunrise, gazing from this hill;)
Again 'tis just at morning — a heavy haze contends with day-break,
Again the trembling, laboring vessel veers me — I press through foam-dash'd rocks that almost touch me,
Again I mark where aft the small thin Indian helmsman
Looms in the mist, with brow elate and governing hand.
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