186
SUMMER ON THE LAKES.
American romance is somewhat stale. |
Talk of the hatchet, and the faces pale, |
Wampum and calumets and forests dreary, |
Once so attractive, now begins to weary. |
Uncas and Magawisca please us still, |
Unreal, yet idealized with skill; |
But every poetaster scribbling witling, |
From the majestic oak his stylus whittling, |
Has helped to tire us, and to make us fear |
The monotone in which so much we hear |
Of “stoics of the wood,” and “men without a tear.” |
Yet Nature, ever buoyant, ever young, |
If let alone, will sing as erst she sung; |
The course of circumstance gives back again |
The Picturesque, erewhile pursued in vain; |
Shows us the fount of Romance is not wasted — |
The lights and shades of contrast not exhausted. |
Shorn of his strength, the Samson now must sue |
For fragments from the feast his fathers gave, |
The Indian dare not claim what is his due, |
But as a boon his heritage must crave; |
His stately form shall soon be seen no more |
Through all his father's land, th' Atlantic shore, |
Beneath the sun, to us so kind, they melt, |
More heavily each day our rule is felt; |
The tale is old, — we do as mortals must: |
Might makes right here, but God and Time are just. |
So near the drama hastens to its close, |
On this last scene awhile your eyes repose; |
The polished Greek and Scythian meet again, |
The ancient life is lived by modern men — |