Where the lonely bittern boomed
Throbbed a dull, insistent whisper, growing strong,
As the steamboat, flame-winged herald
To an age forespent and doomed,
Waked the woodlands with its piston's pulsing song.
Reeling down the rain-washed gullies
To its fertile, grassy vales
The Missouri saw the weary ox-teams plod;
Saw the red scouts on the ridges,
Heard the shots and dying wails,