Page:Poems Hoffman.djvu/109

Or perhaps, a dark-browed Indian wanders slowly by
 Glancing at this tranquil shelter
 With his fierce dark eye.
 Do these gnarled heroic warriors
 Towering side by side,
 Waken no vague recollection
 Of his vanquished tribe?

Do no thoughts of nature's grandeur light his darkened mind,
 As with noiseless tread, he slowly
 Leaves them all behind?
 Poor, lone man, a cloud of darkness
 O'er your mental vision frowns,
 Will not the "Great Spirit" lift it
 In those upper hunting grounds?

Overhead the boughs uniting form a temple high
 With its massive domes extending
 Toward the filmy sky;
 While amid its cloistered stillness
 On warm Sabbath eves,
 One may hear the sweetest praises
 Floating through the leaves.

Nature here unclasps her volume, wrought in flowers and vines,
 From each page I gladly study
 Her own fair designs;
 Rugged rocks and sands and mosses
 Lessons sweet impart,
 Stamping many a thought of beauty
 Deep on mind and heart.

Sitting in this old cathedral, in its sombre shades
 Where the eloquence of nature
 Every heart persuades;

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