Nor taste the fruits on thorny trees that grow,
The evil, and the sorrow, and the crime,
That make the harass'd earth grow old before her time?
iii.
Clime of the West! that to the hunter's bow,
And roving hordes of savage men, wert sold,—
Their cone-roof'd wigwams pierc'd the wintry snow,
Their tassel'd corn crept sparsely through the mould,
Their bark canoes thy glorious waters clave,
The chase their glory, and the wild their grave—
Look up! a loftier destiny behold,
For to thy coast the fair-hair'd Saxon steers,
Rich with the spoils of time, the lore of bards and seers.
iv.
Behold a sail! another, and another!
Like living things on the broad river's breast;—
What were thy secret thoughts, oh, red-brow'd brother,—
As toward the shore these white-wing'd wanderers prest?—
But lo! emerging from her forest-zone,
The bow and quiver o'er her shoulder thrown,
With nodding plumes her raven tresses drest,
Of queenly step, and form erect and bold,
Yet mute with wondering awe, the New World meets the Old.
