 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
251
THE SENECA'S RETURN.
“Thy waves, dark rolling Genesee!
Still lave the flowery shore;
To look upon thy rippling tide
I have returned once more;
Thy glassy bosom pictures yet
The sunbeam and the cloud,
Though aged oaks that fringed thy bank,
The ringing axe hath bowed.
Still lave the flowery shore;
To look upon thy rippling tide
I have returned once more;
Thy glassy bosom pictures yet
The sunbeam and the cloud,
Though aged oaks that fringed thy bank,
The ringing axe hath bowed.
“The sun smiles on the meadow green
Once shadowed by the wood,
And domes of beauty crown the hill
Where our rude cabins stood:
Where rang the hunter's call of yore,
And blazed the Council Fire,
The ploughman's whistle shrill is heard,
And skyward points the spire.
Once shadowed by the wood,
And domes of beauty crown the hill
Where our rude cabins stood:
Where rang the hunter's call of yore,
And blazed the Council Fire,
The ploughman's whistle shrill is heard,
And skyward points the spire.
“The moss of age has over-crept
Our hallowed altar-stone,
And traces of our former sway
Are gone—forever gone.
The dusky pilot guides no more
His dancing bark-canoe,
And bows of strength are snapped in twam,
From which our arrows flew.
Our hallowed altar-stone,
And traces of our former sway
Are gone—forever gone.
The dusky pilot guides no more
His dancing bark-canoe,
And bows of strength are snapped in twam,
From which our arrows flew.
“I visited the burial-place
Where my dead sires reposed;
But, ah! the secrets of the Past
The plough-share had disclosed;
And when I saw their naked bones
Lie bleaching on the plain,
The long-sealed fountain of my grief
Gushed forth like summer rain.
Where my dead sires reposed;
But, ah! the secrets of the Past
The plough-share had disclosed;
252
Lie bleaching on the plain,
The long-sealed fountain of my grief
Gushed forth like summer rain.
“Our dark-eyed maids will nevermore
In pensive twilight hours,
To strew upon their grassy mounds,
Bring emblematic flowers;
Their knives and hatches long ago
Were eaten by the rust,
And strangers tread with careless feet
On their dishonored dust.
In pensive twilight hours,
To strew upon their grassy mounds,
Bring emblematic flowers;
Their knives and hatches long ago
Were eaten by the rust,
And strangers tread with careless feet
On their dishonored dust.
“The pale-face long since offered us
The cup with poisoned brim;
Our hearts grew weak with craven throbs—
Our falcon eyes grew dim.
The birthright of our fathers brave
We sold in our despair,
And vanished is their old renown
Like smoke in empty air.
The cup with poisoned brim;
Our hearts grew weak with craven throbs—
Our falcon eyes grew dim.
The birthright of our fathers brave
We sold in our despair,
And vanished is their old renown
Like smoke in empty air.
“The waterfall that faintly sends
Its murmur to mine ear,
In solemn language telleth me
The angry dead are near;
And when the winds lift mournfully
The sere, autumnal leaves,
Methinks for his degraded son
My father's spirit grieves.
Its murmur to mine ear,
In solemn language telleth me
The angry dead are near;
And when the winds lift mournfully
The sere, autumnal leaves,
Methinks for his degraded son
My father's spirit grieves.
“To seek the radiant Land of Souls,
It is a fitting hour—
Farewell! old chase-ground of my tribe—
Lost home, and ruined bower!”
One parting glance—a sullen plunge—
The chief was seen no more,
And the dark river glided on
As calmly as before.
It is a fitting hour—
Farewell! old chase-ground of my tribe—
Lost home, and ruined bower!”
One parting glance—a sullen plunge—
The chief was seen no more,
And the dark river glided on
As calmly as before.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |