To pay due homage to ancestral dust,
From distant wilderness;
The wave no longer flushes with his oar,
And crusted is his tomahawk with rust.
His woodland language cannot wholly die
While swift Ganèsus, with a voice of glee,
Between bright, flowery banks is rolling by
To mix his waters with the Genesee.
These tall old hemlocks tell of other days,
When the red warrior rested in their shade,