Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/14

Of Indian ambuscade,—the madden'd shout
Of massacre,—the flight of timid forms,
And moan of sireless orphans.
History's hand,
And minstrel's art have glean'd these glowing tints,
And wrought them deftly, like a crimson thread
Into their tissues. 'Tis not mine to choose
A theme so bold,—though I have trod the turf
Whose greenness told what moisture nourish'd it,
And ponder'd pensive o'er that monument
Where the last relics ³ of the fallen brave
Were gathered by their sons. Yes, I have mus'd
'Mid that enchanted scenery, while the thrill
From kindred bosoms, and the vision'd past
Was strong within my soul. Yet, 'tis not meet
That I should tell of war, or woo the tones
Of that high harp, which, struck in England's halls,
Hath made the name of Gertrude, and the lore
Of sad Wyoming's chivalry, a part
Of classic song.
A wilder scene I seek,
Ancient and barren, where the red man reign'd
Sole lord, before the usurping plough had dar'd
A trace of subjugation, or the eye
Of Science, in its darkling bed discern'd
The slumbering ⁴ Anthracite, which now doth draw
Exploring thousands to its ebon throne,
Like a swarth king of Afric. The high arch
Of the cloud-sweeping forest, proudly cast
A solemn shadow, for no sound of axe
Had taught the monarch Oak dire principles
Of revolution, or brought down the Pine,