Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/26

Were language thine, what scenes couldst thou describe,
    When the New World came forth to meet the Old,
The simple welcome of the red-browed tribe,
    The high-born Saxon, dignified and cold;

The plumed chieftain, at his council-fire,
    The dauntless hunter on the wind-swept hill,
The watchful soldier, and the patriot-sire,
    Guarding the infant colony from ill.

The grim gold-searcher, full of venal dreams,
    With microscopic eye and restless soul,
Hoarding the yellow earth that lined the streams.
    Till meagre famine on his reverie stole.

Perchance, Powhatan here, in regal pride,
    His warriors marshalled and his banners waved,
Or Pocahontas, moved with pity, sighed,
    O'er the pale victim, by her firmness saved.

Now, all are swept away. From care and toil,
    Virginia's sires have sought their mouldering bed,
And the untutored owners of the soil,
    Like their own arrow mid the forest, fled.

But thou, Old Church, by hoary Time revered,
    And spared by tempests in their ruthless rage,
To hoar antiquity a friend endeared,
    Art still the beacon of a buried age.