Men of the North, look up!
There ’s a tumult in your sky;
A troubled glory surging out,
Great shadows hurrying by.
Your strength—where is it now?
Your quivers—are they spent?
Your arrows in the rust of death,
Your fathers’ bows unbent?
Men of the North, awake!
Ye ’re called to from the deep;...
There are harps that complain to the presence of night,
To the presence of night alone—
In a near and unchangeable tone—
Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by,
As if some immortal had stooped from the sky,
And breathed out a blessing—and flown!
Yes! harps that complain to the breezes of night,
To the breezes of night...
