 | At the holy well |  |
15
THE LOST HUNTING GROUND.
In Illinois.
To these Atlantic fields the bee
(An earlier emigrant was he)
Came in far years, and found
(O careless gardens! fenceless soil!
Unscarred by plough, untouched by toil!)
The red man's Hunting Ground.
(An earlier emigrant was he)
Came in far years, and found
(O careless gardens! fenceless soil!
Unscarred by plough, untouched by toil!)
The red man's Hunting Ground.
From some old world of song and strife,
From hives o'erfull with restless life,
The glowing flight began,
And, journeying with the journeying sun,
He came, his busy empire won,
Before the white-faced man.
From hives o'erfull with restless life,
The glowing flight began,
And, journeying with the journeying sun,
He came, his busy empire won,
Before the white-faced man.
16
Lord of the flower-land, jealously
The Indian watched the moving bee
Steer his long Westward way;
Or, deep in fragrant-wooded dells,
Building ambrosial waxen cells,
Toil through the sultry day.
The Indian watched the moving bee
Steer his long Westward way;
Or, deep in fragrant-wooded dells,
Building ambrosial waxen cells,
Toil through the sultry day.
He saw (what flying omen gleams
O'er tribal mounds, o'er haunted streams,
O'er fields a boundless flower!)
His Hunting Ground—it is the Past!—
Roofed with far-murmuring cities vast,
Splendent with spire and tower!
O'er tribal mounds, o'er haunted streams,
O'er fields a boundless flower!)
His Hunting Ground—it is the Past!—
Roofed with far-murmuring cities vast,
Splendent with spire and tower!
What workers these? He heard, he saw
Those other swarms (by partial law
Denied their right of birth),
Who claim, where they new States may build,
Division of his lands untilled—
Earth's children's share of earth!
Those other swarms (by partial law
Denied their right of birth),
Who claim, where they new States may build,
Division of his lands untilled—
Earth's children's share of earth!
17
They come!—They came! ... In dream I hear,
O phantom chaser of the deer,
Thy cry, a ghost of sound—
When noisy hives of men are still,
And the night-mist hides vale and hill—
In thy lost Hunting Ground!
O phantom chaser of the deer,
Thy cry, a ghost of sound—
When noisy hives of men are still,
And the night-mist hides vale and hill—
In thy lost Hunting Ground!
| At the holy well | |