Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/14

From Wikisource
Jump to navigation Jump to search
This page has been validated.
14
MRS. SIGOURNEY'S POEMS.

Of Indian ambuscade,—the madden'd shout
Of massacre,—the flight of timid forms,
And moan of sireless orphans.
History's hand,
And minstrel's art have glean'd these glowing tints,
And wrought them deftly, like a crimson thread
Into their tissues. 'Tis not mine to choose
A theme so bold,—though I have trod the turf
Whose greenness told what moisture nourish'd it,
And ponder'd pensive o'er that monument
Where the last relics 3 of the fallen brave
Were gathered by their sons. Yes, I have mus'd
'Mid that enchanted scenery, while the thrill
From kindred bosoms, and the vision'd past
Was strong within my soul. Yet, 'tis not meet
That I should tell of war, or woo the tones
Of that high harp, which, struck in England's halls,
Hath made the name of Gertrude, and the lore
Of sad Wyoming's chivalry, a part
Of classic song.
A wilder scene I seek,
Ancient and barren, where the red man reign'd
Sole lord, before the usurping plough had dar'd
A trace of subjugation, or the eye
Of Science, in its darkling bed discern'd
The slumbering 4 Anthracite, which now doth draw
Exploring thousands to its ebon throne,
Like a swarth king of Afric. The high arch
Of the cloud-sweeping forest, proudly cast
A solemn shadow, for no sound of axe
Had taught the monarch Oak dire principles
Of revolution, or brought down the Pine,