Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/79

And they, whose flying arrow stirred
And staid the fleetest of the herd,
All, like the bubbles on the stream,
Have mingled with oblivion's dream.
A different race usurped my glade,
Whose cheek the Saxon blood betrayed,
And he, the master of this dome,
Within whose gates I found my home,
With stately step and bearing cold,
The poor red-featured throng controlled,
And their mad orgies hashed to fear
Through pealing trump whose echoes clear
At midnight full of terror came,
With the Great Spirit's awful name.

Too soon those sires, sedate and grave,
Recede on Time's unresting wave,
And hospitality sincere,
And virtues simple and severe,
And deep respect for ancient sway
Methinks, with them, have past away.
That honesty, which scorned of old
The traffic of unrighteous gold,
Drank from the well its crystal pure,
And left the silver cup secure,
Seems now submerged, with struggles vain,
In wild desire of sudden gain,
Or lost in wealth's unhallowed pride,
By patient toil unsanctified.