other, through
the night hours, preyed upon by visions, holding my eyelids open by my
will, while strange thoughts like vultures over their carrion, wheeling
about above me, assail me, tear me with their beaks and talons. Dark
looms the cloud bank through the black portals of the river. The fog
holds the bleared eyes of the morning. And I, stiff with watching,
suspect some evil. Some foul play is in the mountains, stalking in the
shadows of the dawn. Would God the releasing trumpet would blow and
the flag flutter on the mountain side, and that I might find all well!
General Washington is on a journey. Would God he were returned! [_The
sound of a bugle is heard._] Blow, blessed bugle! Blow to the rising
Sun! Blow to the dayspring of Liberty, to the new nation rising calmly
above the dangers that beset her dawn. Blow bugle, and scatter the
night-thoughts of terror!

[_Enter the relieving_ Picket.] Who goes there?

_Second Picket_. A friend and thy relief.
Our post is changed;
The pickets are extended up the hills,
And this low post abandoned.

_First Picket_. That is strange,
To leave the river front without a watch!
If we expect attack, attack must come
Along the river,----

_Second Picket_. Comrade, spare your brains,
And take your orders. [_Exeunt_ Pickets.]

_Father Hudson_. Daughters of the sky, ye clouds of the morning,
Replenishers of my veins, ye purple, wandering clouds!
And you, ye waves that lap my feet, far-traveling,
restless, endlessly moving!
Thralls of the circling ocean, waves of the sea--
Attend your Father Hudson, the Ageless, the Majestic!
Calling to you, his sons and daughters, summoning you at his need.
Stoop, daughters of ether, ye clouds of the mountains!
Rise, sons of the sea, most ancient retainers,
Flow towards your father's need! the River calls--
Father Hudson summons his children.

[_Enter simultaneously_ Chorus of Waves, (_men_) _on one side, and on
the other,_ Chorus of Clouds (_women_). _They flock slowly into the
orchestra, approaching each other, and sing as they assemble._]

_Both Choruses_. Father Hudson, we are coming, we are streaming,
we are foaming
From the sky and from the earth,
Down the mountains,
Through the fountains,
We are streaming, steaming forth;
We, the children of your will,
Born to serve you, and to fill
All your banks and all your margin
With the fulne