And, mingled with his all-engulfing stream,
Go to do battle with proud Ocean’s self,
And drive him back even from his own domain.
There is an Indian village; all around,
The dark, eternal, boundless forest spreads
Its varied foliage. Stately palm-trees rise
On every side, and numerous trees unknown
Save by strange names uncouth to English ears.
Here I dwelt awhile, the one white man
Among perhaps two hundred living souls.