My First View of a Western Prairie

The loveliness of Nature, always did Delight me. In the days of childhood; when My young light heart, in all the buoyancy Of its own bright imagination’s spell, Beat in accordant consonance to all For which it cherished an affinity; The summer glory of the landscape, rous’d Within my breast a princely feeling. Time’s Obliterating glance cannot erase, The impulse with my being interwove; And oftentimes, in the fond ecstacy Of youth’s effervescence, I’ve gaz’d Upon the richly variegated fields; Which most emphatically spoke the praise Of Nature, and the cultivator’s skill.

But when I heard the western traveller paint The splendid beauties of the far-off West; Where Nature’s pastures, rich and amply broad, Waving in full abundance, seem to mock The deepest schemes and boldest efforts of The cultivators of the eastern soil; I grew incredulous that Nature’s dress Should be so rich, and so domestic, and So beautiful, without the touch of Art; And thought the picture fancifully wrought.

Yet, in the process of revolving scenes, I left the place of childhood and of youth; And as I journey’d t’ward the setting sun, As if awaking from a nightly dream, Into a scenery grand and strangely new, I almost thought myself transported back Upon the retrograding wheel of time; To days, and scenes, when Greece presided o’er The destinies of earth; and when she shone Like her ador’d Apollo, without one Tall rival in the field of Literature: And fancied then, that I was standing on That tow’ring mount of truly classic fame, That overlooks the rich, the fertile, and The far-extended vales of Crissa: Or, That in some wild poetic spell, of deep Unconscious recklessness, I’d stray’d afar Upon the flowing plains of Marathon.

But soon reflection’s potent wand dispel’d The false illusion, and I realiz’d That I was not inhaling foreign air; Nor moving in a scene emblazon’d with The classic legends of antiquity: O no; the scenery around was not Enchantment: ’Twas the bright original, Of those fair images and ideal forms, Which fancy’s pencil is so prompt to sketch, Instead of treading on Ionian fields; I stood upon Columbian soil; and in The rich and fertile State of Illinois. Amaz’d, I view’d until my optic nerve Grew dull and giddy with the phrenzy of The innocent delight; and I exclaim’d With Sheba’s queen, ‘one half had not been told.’

But then my thoughts—can I describe them now? No: for description’s ablest pow’rs grow lame, Whenever put upon the chase of things Of non-existence; and my thoughts had all, Like liquid matter, melted down; and had Become, as with a secret touch absorb’d, In the one all-engrossing feeling of Deep admiration, vivid and intense. And my imagination too, for once, Acknowledged its own imbecility, And cower’d down, as if to hide away: For all its pow’rs had been too cold and dull, Too tame, and too domestic far, to draw A parallel, with the bold grandeur, and The native beauty of this “Western World.”