RECEPTION OF INDIAN CHIEFS.
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| The savage through our busy cities walks, — |
| He in his untouched grandeur silent stalks. |
| Unmoved by all our gaieties and shows, |
| Wonder nor shame can touch him as he goes; |
| He gazes on the marvels we have wrought, |
| But knows the models from whence all was brought; |
| In God's first temples he has stood so oft, |
| And listened to the natural organ loft — |
| Has watched the eagle's flight, the muttering thunder heard, |
| Art cannot move him to a wondering word; |
| Perhaps he sees that all this luxury |
| Brings less food to the mind than to the eye; |
| Perhaps a simple sentiment has brought |
| More to him than your arts had ever taught. |
| What are the petty triumphs Art has given, |
| To eyes familiar with the naked heaven? |
| All has been seen — dock, railroad, and canal, |
| Fort, market, bridge, college, and arsenal, |
| Asylum, hospital, and cotton mill, |
| The theatre, the lighthouse, and the jail. |
| The Braves each novelty, reflecting, saw, |
| And now and then growled out the earnest yaw. |
| And now the time is come, 'tis understood, |
| When, having seen and thought so much, a talk may do some good. |
| A well-dressed mob have thronged the sight to greet, |
| And motley figures throng the spacious street; |
| Majestical and calm through all they stride, |
| Wearing the blanket with a monarch's pride; |
| The gazers stare and shrug, but can't deny |
| Their noble forms and blameless symmetry. |
