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Text by Archibald Lampman
O slave, whom many a cunning master drills
To lift, or carry, bind, or crush, or churn,
Whose damned and parcelled waters drive or turn
The saws and hammers of a hundred mills,
Yet hath thy strength for our rebellious ills
A counsel brave, a message sweet and stern,
Uttered for them that have the heart to learn:
Yea to the dwellers in the rocky hills,
The folk of cities, and the farthest tracts,
There comes above the human cry for gold
The thunder of thy chutes and cataracts:
And lo! contemptuous of the driver's hold,
Thou movest under all thy servile pacts
Full-flowing, fair, and stately as of old.
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