And, in the boundless solitude which fills,
Even as a mighty heart, their wild domains;
In caves and glens of the unpeopled hills;
And the deep shadow that for ever reigns
Spirit-like in their woods; where, roaring, spills
The giant cataract to the astounded plains,
Nature, in her sublimest moods, had given,
Not man’s weak lore,—but a quick flash from heaven.
Roaming, in their free lives, by lake and stream;
Beneath the splendour of their gorgeous sky;
Encamping, while shot down night’s starry gleam,
In piny glades, where their forefathers lie;
Voices would come, and breathing whispers seem
To rouse within the life which may not die;
Begetting valorous deeds, and thoughts intense,
And a wild gush of burning eloquence.
Such were the men who round the pilgrims came.
Oh! righteous heaven! and thou, heaven-dwelling sun!
How from my heart spring tears of grief and shame,
To think how runs—and quickly shall have run
O’er earth, for twice a thousand years, your flame,
Since, for man’s weal, Christ’s victories were won;
Since dying, to his sons, love’s gift divine
He gave, the bond of brotherhood and the sign.—
Where shines the symbol? Europe’s mighty states,
The brethren of the cross—from age to age,
Have striven to quench in blood their quenchless hates;
Or—cease their armed hosts awhile their rage,
’Tis but that Peace may half unclose her gates
In mockery; that each diplomatic sage
May treat and sign, while War recruits his power
And grinds the sword fresh millions to devour.
Yet thus could, in a savage-styled land,
A few,—reviled, scorn’d, hated of the whole,
Stretch forth for peace the unceremonious hand,
And stamp Truth, even upon a sealed scroll.
They called not God, or men, in proof to stand:
They prayed no vengeance on the perjured soul:
But heaven look’d down, and moved with wonder saw
A compact framed, where time might bring no flaw.
Yet, through the land no clamorous triumph spread.
Some bursts of natural eloquence were there:
Somewhat of his past wrongs the Indian said;
Of deeds design’d which now were given to air.
Some tears the mother o’er her infant shed,
As through her soul pass’d Hope’s depictions fair;
And they were gone—the guileless scene was o’er;
And the wild woods absorb’d their tribes once more.
Ay, years have rolled on years, and long has Penn
Pass’d, with his justice, from the soil he bought;
And the world’s spirit, and the world’s true men
Its native sons with different views have sought.
Crushing them down till they have risen again
With bloodiest retribution; yet have taught,
Even while their hot revenge spread fire and scath,
Their ancient, firm, inviolable faith.
When burst the war-whoop at the dead of night,
And the blood curdled at the dreadful sound;
And morning brought not its accustomed light
To thousands slumbering in their gore around;
Then, like oases in the desert’s blight,
The homes of Penn’s peculiar tribe were found:
And still the scroll he gave, in love and pride,
Their hands preserve,—earth has not such beside.
Yes; prize it, waning race, for never more
Shall your wild glades another Penn behold:
Pure, dauntless legislator, who did soar
Higher than dared sublimest thought of old.
That antique lie which bent the great of yore,
And ruleth still—Expedience stern and cold,
He pluck’d with scorn from its usurped car
And showed Truth strong, and glorious as a star.
The vast, the ebbless, the engulphing tide
Of the white population still rolls on!
And quail’d has your romantic heart of pride,—
The kingly spirit of the woods is gone.
Farther, and farther do ye wend to hide
Your wasting strength; to mourn your glory flown,
And sigh to think how soon shall crowds pursue
Down the lone stream where glides the still canoe.