XII.
The sassafras took leaf, and men
Push'd west in hosts. The black men drew
Their black-maned horses silent through
The solemn woods.
One midnight when
The curl'd moon tipp'd her horn, and threw
A black oak's shadow slant across
A low mound hid in leaves and moss,
Old Morgan cautious came and drew
From out the ground, as from a grave,
A great box, iron-bound and old,
And fill'd, men say, with pirates' gold,
And then they, silent as a dream,
In long black shadows cross'd the stream.
Lo! here the smoke of cabins curl'd,
The borders of the middle world;
And mighty, hairy, half-wild men
Sat down in silence, held at bay
By mailèd forests. Far away
The red men's boundless borders lay,
And lodges stood in legions then,
Strip'd pyramids of painted men.
What strong uncommon men were these,
These settlers hewing to the seas!
Great horny-handed men and tan;
Men blown from any border land;
Men desperate and red of hand,
And men in love and men in debt,
And men who lived but to forget,
And men whose very hearts had died,
Who only sought these woods to hide
Their wretchedness, held in the van;
Yet every man among them stood
Alone, along that sounding wood,
A race of unnamed giants these,
That moved like gods among the trees,
So stern, so stubborn-brow'd and slow,
With strength of black-maned buffalo,
And each man notable and tall,
A kingly and unconscious Saul,
A sort of sullen Hercules.
A star stood large and white awest,
Then Time uprose and testified;
They push'd the mailèd wood aside,
They toss'd the forest like a toy,
That great forgotten race of men,
The boldest band that yet has been
Together since the siege of Troy,
And followed it ... and found their rest.
What strength! what strife! what rude unrest!
What shocks! what half-shaped armies met!
A mighty nation moving west,
With all its steely sinews set
Against the living forests. Hear
The shouts, the shots of pioneer!
The rended forests, rolling wheels,
As if some half-check'd army reels,
Recoils, redoubles, comes again,
Loud sounding like a hurricane.
O bearded, stalwart, westmost men,
So tower-like, so Gothic-built!
A kingdom won without the guilt
Of studied battle; that hath been
Your blood's inheritance....
Your heirs
Know not your tombs. The great ploughshares
Cleave softly through the mellow loam
Where you have made eternal home
And set no sign.
Are writ in furrows. Beauty laughs
While through the green ways wandering
Beside her love, slow gathering
White starry-hearted May-time blooms
Above your lowly levell'd tombs;
And then below the spotted sky
She stops, she leans, she wonders why
The ground is heaved and broken so,
And why the grasses darker grow
And droop and trail like wounded wing.
Yea, Time, the grand old harvester,
Has gather'd you from wood and plain.
We call to you again, again;
The rush and rumble of the car
Comes back in answer. Deep and wide
The wheels of progress have pass'd on;
The silent pioneer is gone.
His ghost is moving down the trees,
Of bluff, bold men who dared and died
In foremost battle, quite aside.
O perfect Eden of the earth,
In poppies sown, in harvest set!
O sires, mothers of my West!
How shall we count your proud bequest?
But yesterday ye gave us birth;
We eat your hard-earn'd bread to-day,
Not toil nor spin nor make regret,
But praise our petty selves and say
How great we are, and all forget
The still endurance of the rude
Unpolish'd sons of solitude.