| Ye shall say they all have passed away,
|
| That noble race and brave,
|
| That their light canoes have vanish’d
|
| From off the crested wave.
|
| That 'mid the forests where they roam’d
|
| There rings no hunter’s shout;
|
| But their name is on your waters,
|
| Ye may not wash it out.
|
| 'Tis where Ontario’s billow
|
| Like Ocean’s surge is curled;
|
| Where strong Niagara’s thunders wake
|
| The echo of the world;
|
| Where red Missouri bringeth
|
| Rich tributes from the west,
|
| And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
|
| On green Virginia’s breast.
|
| Ye say, their cone-like cabins,
|
| That cluster’d o’er the vale,
|
| Have fled away like wither’d leaves
|
| Before the autumn gale:
|
| But their memory liveth on your hills,
|
| Their baptism on your shore;
|
| Your everlasting rivers speak
|
| Their dialect of yore.
|
| Old Massachusetts wears it
|
| Within her lordly crown,
|
| And broad Ohio bears it
|
| 'mid all her young renown;
|
| Connecticut hath wreathed it
|
| Where her quiet foliage waves,
|
| And bold Kentucky breathed it hoarse
|
| Through all her ancient caves.
|
| Wachuset hides its lingering voice
|
| Within its rocky heart,
|
| And Alleghany graves its tone
|
| Throughout his lofty chart:
|
| Monadnock on his forehead hoar
|
| Doth seal the sacred trust;
|
| Your mountains build their monument,
|
| Though ye destroy their dust |