| |
| HIS echoing axe the settler swung | |
| Amid the sea-like solitude, | |
| And rushing, thundering, down were flung | |
| The Titans of the wood; | |
| Loud shrieked the eagle as he dashed | 5 |
| From out his mossy nest, which crashed | |
| With its supporting bough, | |
| And the first sunlight, leaping, flashed | |
| On the wolf’s haunt below. | |
| |
| Rude was the garb, and strong the frame | 10 |
| Of him who plied his ceaseless toil: | |
| To form that garb, the wild-wood game | |
| Contributed their spoil; | |
| The soul that warmed that frame disdained | |
| The tinsel, gaud, and glare, that reigned | 15 |
| Where men their crowds collect; | |
| The simple fur, untrimmed, unstained, | |
| This forest-tamer decked. | |
| |
| The paths which wound mid gorgeous trees, | |
| The streams whose bright lips kissed their flowers, | 20 |
| The winds that swelled their harmonies | |
| Through those sun-hiding bowers, | |
| The temple vast—the green arcade, | |
| The nestling vale—the grassy glade, | |
| Dark cave and swampy lair,— | 25 |
| These scenes and sounds majestic, made | |
| His world and pleasures, there. | |
| |
| His roof adorned a lovely spot, | |
| Mid the black logs green glowed the grain, | |
| And herbs and plants the woods knew not | 30 |
| Throve in the sun and rain. | |
| The smoke-wreath curling o’er the dell, | |
| The low—the bleat—the tinkling bell, | |
| All made a landscape strange, | |
| Which was the living chronicle | 35 |
| Of deeds that wrought the change. | |
| |
| The violet sprung at spring’s first tinge, | |
| The rose of summer spread its glow, | |
| The maize hung on its autumn fringe, | |
| Rude winter brought its snow; | 40 |
| And still the settler labored there, | |
| His shout and whistle woke the air, | |
| As cheerily he plied | |
| His garden spade, or drove his share | |
| Along the hillock’s side. | 45 |
| |
| He marked the fire-storm’s blazing flood | |
| Roaring and crackling on its path, | |
| And scorching earth, and melting wood, | |
| Beneath its greedy wrath; | |
| He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot | 50 |
| Trampling the pine-tree with its foot, | |
| And darkening thick the day | |
| With streaming bough and severed root, | |
| Hurled whizzing on its way. | |
| |
| His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed, | 55 |
| The grim bear hushed its savage growl, | |
| In blood and foam the panther gnashed | |
| Its fangs, with dying howl; | |
| The fleet deer ceased its flying bound, | |
| Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground, | 60 |
| And with its moaning cry | |
| The beaver sank beneath the wound, | |
| Its pond-built Venice by. | |
| |
| Humble the lot, yet his the race, | |
| When Liberty sent forth her cry, | 65 |
| Who thronged in Conflict’s deadliest place, | |
| To fight—to bleed—to die! | |
| Who cumbered Bunker’s height of red, | |
| By hope through weary years were led, | |
| And witnessed Yorktown’s sun | 70 |
| Blaze on a Nation’s banner spread, | |
| A Nation’s freedom won. | |
| |
