Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/80

Change steals o'er all; the bark canoe
No longer cleaves the streamlet blue,
Nor even the flying wheel retains
Its ancient prowess o'er the plains;
The horse, with nerves of iron frame,
Whose breath is smoke, whose food is flame,
Surmounts the earth with fearful sweep,
And strangely rules the cleaving deep,
While they, who once, at sober pace,
Reflecting rode, from place to place,
Now, with rash speed and brains that swim,
In reckless plans, resemble him.

But yet, I would not cloud my strain,
Nor think the world is in its wane,
For 't is the fault of age, they say,
Its own decadence to betray,
By ceaseless blame of things that are,
So, of this frailty I'll beware,
And keep my blessings full in sight,
While in this land of peace and light,
Where liberty and plenty dwell,
And knowledge seeks the lowliest cell,
No woodman's steel my heart invades,
Nor heathen footsteps track my shades.
Yet too expansive grows the lay,
Forgive its egotism, I pray,
And should'st thou in thy goodness deign,
A line responsive to my strain,