And this was once the realm of Nature, where Wild as the wind, though exquisitely fair, She breathed the mountain breeze, or bowed to kiss The dimpling waters with unbounded bliss. Here in this Paradise of earth, where first Wild mountain Liberty began to burst, Once Nature's temple rose in simple grace, The hill her throne, the world her dwelling-place. And where are now her lakes, so still and lone, Her thousand streams with bending shrubs o'ergrown? Where her dark cat'racts tumbling from on high, With rainbow arch aspiring to the sky? Her tow'ring pines with fadeless wreaths entwined, Her waving alders streaming to the wind? Nor these alone,—her own,—her fav'rite child, All fire, all feeling; man untaught and wild; Where can the lost, lone son of Nature stray? For art's high car is rolling on its way; A wand'rer of the world, he flies to drown The thoughts of days gone by and pleasures flown In the deep draught, whose dregs are death and woe, With slavery's iron chain concealed below. Once through the tangled wood, with noiseless tread And throbbing heart, the lurking warrior sped, Aimed his sure weapon, won the prize, and turned, While his high heart with wild ambition burned, With song and war-whoop to his native tree, There on its bark to carve the victory. His all of learning did that act comprise, But still in nature's volume doubly wise.
The wayward stream which once, with idle bound, Whirled on resistless in its foaming round, Now curbed by art flows on, a wat'ry chain Linking the snow-capped mountains to the main. Where once the alder in luxuriance grew, Or the tall pine its towering branches threw Abroad to heaven, with dark and haughty brow, There mark the realms of plenty smiling now; There the full sheaf of Ceres richly glows, And Plenty's fountain blesses as it flows; And man, a brute when left to wander wild, A reckless creature, Nature's lawless child, What boundless streams of knowledge rolling now From the full hand of art around him flow! Improvement strides the surge, while from afar Learning rolls onward in her silver car; Freedom unfurls her banner o'er his head, While peace sleeps sweetly on her native bed.
The Muse arises from the wild-wood glen, And chants her sweet and hallowed song again, As in those halcyon days, which bards have sung, When hope was blushing, and when life was young. Thus shall she rise, and thus her sons shall rear Her sacred temple here, and only here, While Percival, her loved and chosen priest, Forever blessing, though himself unblest, Shall fan the fire that blazes at her shrine, And charm the ear with numbers half divine.
