The Brave

The river hastens and glistens.
(Has destiny's stream a shore?)
The weary voyager listens,
And hears the cataract's roar.

The foam is flashing and leaping,
But strongly he rows for life.
(Ah, who can think without weeping
Of many a hopeless strife?)

The banks are luscious and glowing
With flowers and flowery breath;
The vines their fruitage are showing
To him who wrestles with death.

The woodland carols and twitters
Bravuras from every limb;
The whole earth warbles and glitters
With gladness for all but him.

The paddles quiver — they shiver!
But nothing may shake a chief;
He yields his life to the river,
But conquers terror and grief.

His robe around him he gathers,
Defying his howling grave,
And chants the dirge of his fathers,
And dies the death of a brave.

So let me face the disaster
That ravens beneath my prow,
Affronting woe as a master
And plunging with changeless brow.