186
SUMMER ON THE LAKES.
| American romance is somewhat stale. |
| Talk of the hatchet, and the faces pale, |
| Wampum and calumets and forests dreary, |
| Once so attractive, now begins to weary. |
| Uncas and Magawisca please us still, |
| Unreal, yet idealized with skill; |
| But every poetaster scribbling witling, |
| From the majestic oak his stylus whittling, |
| Has helped to tire us, and to make us fear |
| The monotone in which so much we hear |
| Of “stoics of the wood,” and “men without a tear.” |
| Yet Nature, ever buoyant, ever young, |
| If let alone, will sing as erst she sung; |
| The course of circumstance gives back again |
| The Picturesque, erewhile pursued in vain; |
| Shows us the fount of Romance is not wasted — |
| The lights and shades of contrast not exhausted. |
| Shorn of his strength, the Samson now must sue |
| For fragments from the feast his fathers gave, |
| The Indian dare not claim what is his due, |
| But as a boon his heritage must crave; |
| His stately form shall soon be seen no more |
| Through all his father's land, th' Atlantic shore, |
| Beneath the sun, to us so kind, they melt, |
| More heavily each day our rule is felt; |
| The tale is old, — we do as mortals must: |
| Might makes right here, but God and Time are just. |
| So near the drama hastens to its close, |
| On this last scene awhile your eyes repose; |
| The polished Greek and Scythian meet again, |
| The ancient life is lived by modern men — |
