Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/88

Fair herds and flocks o'er velvet meadows stray,
Where erst the wolf and panther prowled for prey,
While broad canals unite with giant chain
The wondering inland to the mighty main,
Lo! the poor red man, feeling in his heart
The long-drawn drama of his power depart,
Stood for a moment, in his fallen pride,
Like statued bronze, by rock or river side,
Bent o'er his fathers' graves, with sigh supprest,
While speechless anguish heaved his ample breast,
Gazed till deep midnight veiled his favorite shore,
Then westward journeyed, to return no more.


Friend at the East! though many a year hath sped
Light-winged and scathless o'er my towering head,
Yet now, methinks, dread Winter longer reigns,
And Spring, more tardy, wakes the frost-bound plains
While through my veins a feebler current flows,
To make resistance to my stormy foes;
But this is Age, we both must own its sway,
And thou and I, like frailer man, decay.


Of them thou ask'st, who from thy native scene,
Where thy fair river flows in pride serene,
Since the last brief half-century's fleeting shade,
Became the owners of my sylvan glade.
Brothers of noble name and manly prime,
An honor to their blest New England clime,