I laugh, for hope hath happy place with me

A wail in the wind is all I hear; A voice of woe for a lover's loss.

I sing New England, as she lights her fire In every Prairie's midst; and where the bright Enchanting stars shine pure through Southern night, She still is there, the guardian on the tower, To open for the world a purer hour.

My highway is unfeatured air, My consorts are the sleepless stars, And men my giant arms upbear — My arms unstained and free from scars.

Most joyful let the Poet be; It is through him that all men see.

The sunn must lend his goulden beames, Soft windes their breath, green trees their shade, Sweete fields their flowers, cleare springs their streams, Ere such another smyle bee made.

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice, And with that boding cry Why o'er the waves dost fly? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice!