Their bark canoes thy glorious waters clave,
The chase their glory, and the wild their grave:
Look up! a loftier destiny behold,
For to thy coast the fair-hair'd Saxon steers,
Rich with the spoils of time, the lore of bards and seers.
IV.
Like living things on the broad river's breast;
What were thy secret thoughts, oh red-brow'd brother,
As toward the shore those white-wing'd wanderers press'd?
But lo! emerging from her forest-zone,
The bow and quiver o'er her shoulder thrown,
With nodding plumes her raven tresses dress'd,
Of queenly step, and form erect and bold,
Yet mute with wondering awe, the New World meets the Old.
V.
Which like a sea doth swell old ocean's sway;
With hasting keel, thy pale-faced sponsors glide
To keep the pageant of thy christening day:
They bless thy wave, they bid thee leave unsung
The uncouth baptism of a barbarous tongue,
And take his name—the Stuart's—first to bind
The Scottish thistle in the lion's mane,
Of all old Albion's kings, most versatile and vain.
