Cry, O pilots of the air,
Leading to the lonely meads
By the quiet lakes and cold,
To the land of grass and reeds,
Twixt the northern mountains set
Like a picture in a frame,
In among the headlands bold;
Where the weird northlights flame,
Flashing through the evening sky;
Where the days are still and long,
And the hours are brief that roll—
Filled with murmurs of the song
Sung by cataracts and pines
To the fiercely glowing stars
Swinging round the northern pole—
Back the midnight's ebon bars.
O, winged creatures all,
Of the land or of the sea,
Of the west, or east, or south,
Bird or butterfly or bee,
Or the eagle of the crags,
Breathing of this air divine
Blowing from its maker's mouth,
Quickening the blood like wine,
Sing and cry unto this land,
To this sunland by the sea,
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