 | [Poems by Piatt in] Poems of two friends |  |
78
THE WESTERN PIONEER.
Into the prairies' boundless blossom,
Into the Wide West's sunburnt bosom,
The earliest emigrants came:
The flowers, like sunny miracles, grew
Before them, fragrant, from the dew,
Filling the grass like flame!
Into the Wide West's sunburnt bosom,
The earliest emigrants came:
The flowers, like sunny miracles, grew
Before them, fragrant, from the dew,
Filling the grass like flame!
From some old land of song and life—
Of man, in manhood's glowing strife,
Departing all alone,
And journeying with the journeying sun,
They came—their busy empire won—
Before the white man known.
Of man, in manhood's glowing strife,
Departing all alone,
And journeying with the journeying sun,
They came—their busy empire won—
Before the white man known.
The Indian saw the moving Bees,
From flower to flower, in dream-like breeze
Blowing their pilgrim way;
Or, deep in honey of the flower,
Hanging in sunshine hour by hour,
Dream through the dreaming day.
From flower to flower, in dream-like breeze
Blowing their pilgrim way;
Or, deep in honey of the flower,
Hanging in sunshine hour by hour,
Dream through the dreaming day.
79
He saw the Future's garment gleam
O'er mounds of tribes and legend-stream—
O'er the sweet waste of flowers;
He saw his hunting ground—the Past!
Lit with the domes of cities vast—
Glory of spires and towers!
O'er mounds of tribes and legend-stream—
O'er the sweet waste of flowers;
He saw his hunting ground—the Past!
Lit with the domes of cities vast—
Glory of spires and towers!
Those other Bees! He felt—he saw,
With sorrowing eye, in dreamy awe,
The blossom of the West
Thrill with the sunny-toiling Bees
Of busy Freedom, happy Peace—
Wide blessings and the blest.
With sorrowing eye, in dreamy awe,
The blossom of the West
Thrill with the sunny-toiling Bees
Of busy Freedom, happy Peace—
Wide blessings and the blest.
They come! They came! Lo! they are here!
The Indian heart-beat everywhere
Starts echoes wild no more;
The leaves have fallen from his trees,
Of life: dead leaves, in every breeze,
Rustle forevermore!
The Indian heart-beat everywhere
Starts echoes wild no more;
The leaves have fallen from his trees,
Of life: dead leaves, in every breeze,
Rustle forevermore!
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