INTRODUCTORY.
xvii
Born of a mountain spring to swell the sea,
And to man's life compare the aspiring wave,—
"Is born, is great," then thunders to the grave.
I turn my eyes, the sun's departing beam
Gilds yonder hill with more than earthly gleam;
It glows like Sinai's mount, then fades to gloom.
Ambitious, soaring child, it typifies thy doom.
Oft when the morn smiled bright o'er frosty ground,
And startling horn had waked the slumbering hound,
I've sprung to horse, and with the shouting train,
Chased fox and wolf o'er hill and dale and plain,
Till tired with sport I've checked my headlong steed,
Where some bright stream winds through the flow'ry mead,
And thrown me down, where sunbeams never come,
To rest, to sleep, perchance to dream of home,
Or watch my horse with eager ear and eye,
Start at the hounds' deep bay, and hunters' distant cry:
Days, weeks and months, I've coursed the prairie's plain,
Garden of God! the red man's rich domain—
Oft chilled by cold, or scorched by summer's sun,
From morn till night, till many a march was done,
Then laid me down in some wild Indian's camp,
The earth my resting-place, cold, drear, and damp,
To watch the stars—to mark the sullen owl,
To catch the cadence of the wolf's sad howl,
Or list the tales of scout and foray far,
Of skulking Pawnee band, or murderous Delaware,—
O! could I catch that martial strain again,
The band's wild music thrilling through each vein,
While deep-mouthed trumpets rich alarums pour;
'Twere worth a life to hear those sounds once more.
And to man's life compare the aspiring wave,—
"Is born, is great," then thunders to the grave.
I turn my eyes, the sun's departing beam
Gilds yonder hill with more than earthly gleam;
It glows like Sinai's mount, then fades to gloom.
Ambitious, soaring child, it typifies thy doom.
Oft when the morn smiled bright o'er frosty ground,
And startling horn had waked the slumbering hound,
I've sprung to horse, and with the shouting train,
Chased fox and wolf o'er hill and dale and plain,
Till tired with sport I've checked my headlong steed,
Where some bright stream winds through the flow'ry mead,
And thrown me down, where sunbeams never come,
To rest, to sleep, perchance to dream of home,
Or watch my horse with eager ear and eye,
Start at the hounds' deep bay, and hunters' distant cry:
Days, weeks and months, I've coursed the prairie's plain,
Garden of God! the red man's rich domain—
Oft chilled by cold, or scorched by summer's sun,
From morn till night, till many a march was done,
Then laid me down in some wild Indian's camp,
The earth my resting-place, cold, drear, and damp,
To watch the stars—to mark the sullen owl,
To catch the cadence of the wolf's sad howl,
Or list the tales of scout and foray far,
Of skulking Pawnee band, or murderous Delaware,—
O! could I catch that martial strain again,
The band's wild music thrilling through each vein,
While deep-mouthed trumpets rich alarums pour;
'Twere worth a life to hear those sounds once more.
