Page:Selections from the American poets (IA selectamerpoet00bryarich).pdf/235
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Elizabeth F. Ellet.
231
Thou'rt beautiful when evening moonbeams shine,And the soft hour of night and stars is thine.Thou hast thy tempests, too; the lightning's home Is near thee, though unseen thy peaceful shore,When storms have lash'd these waters into foam, Echoes full oft the pealing thunder's roar.Thou hast dark trophies: the unhonour'd tomb Of those now sought and wept on earth no more:Full many a goodly form, the loved and brave,Lies whelm'd and still beneath thy sullen wave.The world was young with thee; this swelling flood As proudly swell'd, as purely met the sky,When sound of life roused not the ancient wood, Save the wild eagle's scream, or panther's cry.Here on this verdant bank the savage stood, And shook his dart and battle-axe on high,While hues of slaughter tinged thy billows blue,As deeper and more close the conflict grew.Here, too, at early morn, the hunter's song Was heard from wooded isle and grassy glade;And here at eve, these cluster'd bowers among, The low, sweet carol of the Indian maid,Chiding the slumbering breeze and shadows long, That kept her lingering lover from the shade:While, scarcely seen, thy willing waters o'er,Sped the light bark that bore him to the shore.Those scenes are past. The spirit of changing years Has breathed on all around save thee alone.More faintly the receding woodland hears Thy voice, once full and joyous as its own.Nations have gone from earth, nor trace appears To tell their tale—forgotten or unknown.Yet here, unchanged, untamed, thy waters lie,Azure, and clear, and boundless as the sky.