That soon fair Buffalo, in queenly pride,
Would spring the Carthage of our inland seas,
And wave her sceptre o’er the waters wide—
To shipping change the patriarchal trees,
And launch a thousand barks to battle with the breeze.
The foreign tourist gazing on thy vale,
By rural seat and stately mansion graced,
Stands mute with wonder when he hears the tale
Of thy redemption from the sylvan waste:
That only fifty years their rounds have traced