For ages, on the silent forests here, Thy beams did fall before the red man came To dwell beneath them; in their shade the deer Fed, and feared not the arrow's deadly aim. Nor tree was felled, in all that world of woods, Save by the beaver's tooth, or winds, or rush of floods. Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst look, For ages, on their deeds in the hard chase, And well-fought wars; green sod and silver brook Took the first stain of blood; before thy face The warrior generations came and passed, And glory was laid up for many an age to last. Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze Goes down the west, while night is pressing on, And with them the old tale of better days, And trophies of remembered power, are gone. Yon field that gives the harvest, where the plough Strikes the white bone, is all that tells their story now. I stand upon their ashes in thy beam, The offspring of another race, I stand, Beside a stream they loved, this valley stream; And where the night-fire of the quivered band Showed the gray oak by fits, and war-song rung, I teach the quiet shades the strains of this new tongue. Farewell! but thou shalt come again--thy light Must shine on other changes, and behold The place of the thronged city still as night-- States fallen--new empires built upon the old-- But never shalt thou see these realms again Darkened by boundless groves, and roamed by savage men. HYMN TO DEATH. Oh! could I hope the wise and pure in heart Might hear my song without a frown, nor deem My voice unworthy of the theme it tries,-- I would take up the hymn to Death, and say To the grim power: The world hath slandered thee And mocked thee. On thy dim and shadowy brow They place an iron crown, and call thee king Of terrors, and the spoiler of the world, Deadly assassin, that strik'st down the fair, The loved, the good--that breathest on the lights Of virtue set along the vale of life, And they go out in darkness. I am come, Not with reproaches, not with cries and prayers, Such as have stormed thy stern, insensible ear from the beginning. I am come to speak Thy praises. True it is, that I have wept Thy conquests, and may weep them yet again: And thou from some I love wilt take a life Dear to me as my own. Yet while the spell Is on my spirit, and I talk with thee In sight of all thy trophies, face to face, Meet is it that my voice should utter forth Thy nobler triumphs; I will teach the world To thank thee.--Who are thine accusers?--Who? The living!--they who never felt thy power, And know thee not. The curses of the wretch Whose crimes are ripe, his sufferings when thy hand Is on him, and the hour he dreads is come, Are writ among thy praises. But the good-- Does he whom thy kind hand dismissed to peace, Upbraid the gentle violence that took off His fetters, and unbarred his prison cell?