See where the stealthy panther left his tracks! As fierce, as stealthy creeps the skulking foe With stone-tipped shaft and sinew-corded bow; Soon shall he vanish from his ancient reign, Leave his last cornfield to the coming train, Quit the green margin of the wave he drinks, For haunts that hide the wild-cat and the lynx. But who the Youth his glistening axe that swings To smite the pine that shows a hundred rings? His features?--something in his look I find That calls the semblance of my race to mind. His name?--my own; and that which goes before The same that once the loved disciple bore. Young, brave, discreet, the father of a line Whose voiceless lives have found a voice in mine; Thinned by unnumbered currents though they be, Thanks for the ruddy drops I claim from thee! The seasons pass; the roses come and go; Snows fall and melt; the waters freeze and flow; The boys are men; the girls, grown tall and fair, Have found their mates; a gravestone here and there Tells where the fathers lie; the silvered hair Of some bent patriarch yet recalls the time That saw his feet the northern hillside climb, A pilgrim from the pilgrims far away, The godly men, the dwellers by the bay. On many a hearthstone burns the cheerful fire; The schoolhouse porch, the heavenward pointing spire Proclaim in letters every eye can read, Knowledge and Faith, the new world's simple creed. Hush! 't is the Sabbath's silence-stricken morn No feet must wander through the tasselled corn; No merry children laugh around the door, No idle playthings strew the sanded floor; The law of Moses lays its awful ban On all that stirs; here comes the tithing-man At last the solemn hour of worship calls; Slowly they gather in the sacred walls; Man in his strength and age with knotted staff, And boyhood aching for its week-day laugh, The toil-worn mother with the child she leads, The maiden, lovely in her golden beads,-- The popish symbols round her neck she wears, But on them counts her lovers, not her prayers,-- Those youths in homespun suits and ribboned queues, Whose hearts are beating in the high-backed pews. The pastor rises; looks along the seats With searching eye; each wonted face he meets; Asks heavenly guidance; finds the chapter's place That tells some tale of Israel's stubborn race; Gives out the sacred song; all voices join, For no quartette extorts their scanty coin; Then while both hands their black-gloved palms display, Lifts his gray head, and murmurs, "Let us pray!" And pray he does! as one that never fears To plead unanswered by the God that hears; What if he dwells on many a fact as though Some things Heaven knew not which it ought to know,-- Thanks God for all his favors past, and yet, Tells Him there's something He must not forget; Such are the prayers his people love to hear,-- See how the Deacon slants his listening ear! What! look once more! Nay, surely there I trace The hinted outlines of a well-known face! Not those the lips for laughter to beguile,