Draw in the noisy, splashing oars,
Recline at ease upon the thwarts,
While drifts our bark, we too shall drift,
Upon the current of our thoughts.
For Nature seems to cast a spell,
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A deep, resistless drowsyness,
Upon the soul. The dying breeze
Is like a parting, fond caress.
Across the surface of the lake,
The airy swallows lightly skim,
Their dipping pinions sacredly raise
Faint ripples on its level brim.
A sweet, bewitching melody,
Comes from the fountain's distant flow,
The rustling treetops softly sigh,
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Scratch Races.
