In nameless havens furled her tattered sail,
Or toward Pacific seas, pursued the red man’s trail.
The buskined lords of bow and leathern quiver
Were thy admiring sponsors long ago,
And named thee “Genesee,” my native river,[(1)]
For pleasant are thy waters in their flow!
Though on thy sides no bowers of orange grow,
The free and happy in thy valley throng,
O’er which the airs of health delight to blow—
No richer, brighter charms than thine belong