Page:Zinzendorff and Other Poems.pdf/14

14 Of Indian ambuscade,—the madden'd shout Of massacre,—the flight of timid forms, And moan of sireless orphans. History's hand, And minstrel's art have glean'd these glowing tints, And wrought them deftly, like a crimson thread Into their tissues. 'Tis not mine to choose A theme so bold,—though I have trod the turf Whose greenness told what moisture nourish'd it, And ponder'd pensive o'er that monument Where the last relics 3 of the fallen brave Were gathered by their sons. Yes, I have mus'd 'Mid that enchanted scenery, while the thrill From kindred bosoms, and the vision'd past Was strong within my soul. Yet, 'tis not meet That I should tell of war, or woo the tones Of that high harp, which, struck in England's halls, Hath made the name of Gertrude, and the lore Of sad Wyoming's chivalry, a part Of classic song. A wilder scene I seek, Ancient and barren, where the red man reign'd Sole lord, before the usurping plough had dar'd A trace of subjugation, or the eye Of Science, in its darkling bed discern'd The slumbering 4 Anthracite, which now doth draw Exploring thousands to its ebon throne, Like a swarth king of Afric. The high arch Of the cloud-sweeping forest, proudly cast A solemn shadow, for no sound of axe Had taught the monarch Oak dire principles Of revolution, or brought down the Pine,