1820-30.] PEYTON SHORT SYMMES. 35 Even now, though dimly, I behold again The vision of that long funereal train ; By whom, — from life's sad cares too rudely torn, — Our cofih'd "Patriarch" to the grave was borne : — When he whose name your annals have enshrined (Th' unselfish benefactor of his kind !) Was laid, — where still affection lingering grieves, — Near his loved home — among the hills of Cleves. Thrice fifteen summers have their foliage cast, In golden showers, on autumn's fitful blast, Since first our Sires, by beck'ning hopes allured, In yonder cove, their ice-worn vessels moored. — At only two-score years, I cannot claim The memory that should give their deeds to fame ; — But, for those Sires — the day will surely come When hist'ry's voice no longer shall be dumb ! Where stands this Hall, how oft the startled deer Fled from the wood-notes of the pioneer. As round him the primeval forest bowed, And rude huts rose to greet the coming crowd ! Aye, — and how oft, beneatli those peopled sheds. Where forest skins supplied the uncur- tained beds, The death-doomed inmates woke, with shuddering fear, Th' appalling yells of savage hordes to hear ! How changed the scene, since first, with youthful eyes, I saw th' o'ershadowing woods in grandeur rise. And blithely sought (alas, where are they now?) The flower-decked mound, and vine-en- cumbered bough; — Or roamed, perchance, along the nut-strewn vale. Wooed by the promise of th' autumnal gale ; — Or, bathed in yonder stream's pellucid flood, Ere slaughtered herds had dyed it with their blood ! Through the long vista of departed years, The kindling eye now gazes — dimmed with tears; And now, with magic power, behold, it brings The sweets of memory — ^without its stings !
But, tongues more tuneful shall these scenes rehearse, — For mine but heralds many a nobler verse.
