The literary remains of the late Willis Gaylord Clark Including the Ollapodiana Papers, the Spirit Of Life, and a selection from his various prose and poetical writings |
 |
[Son of the stranger! wouldst thou take] |
 | The literary remains of the late Willis Gaylord Clark |  |
147
[Son of the stranger! wouldst thou take]
Son of the stranger! wouldst thou take
O'er yon blue hills thy lonely way,
To reach the still and shining lake,
Along whose banks the west winds play?
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile;
Oh, seek not thou the Fountain Isle!
O'er yon blue hills thy lonely way,
To reach the still and shining lake,
Along whose banks the west winds play?
Let no vain dreams thy heart beguile;
Oh, seek not thou the Fountain Isle!
Bright, bright, in many a rocky urn,
The waters of our deserts lie;
Yet at their source, the lip shall burn,
Parched with the fever's agony;
From the blue mountains to the main,
Our thousand floods may roll in vain.
The waters of our deserts lie;
Yet at their source, the lip shall burn,
Parched with the fever's agony;
From the blue mountains to the main,
Our thousand floods may roll in vain.
Even there our hunters came of yore,
Back from their long and weary quest;
Had they not seen the untrodden shore,
And could they midst our wilds find rest?
The lightning of their glance was fled,
They dwelt among us as the dead!
Back from their long and weary quest;
Had they not seen the untrodden shore,
And could they midst our wilds find rest?
The lightning of their glance was fled,
They dwelt among us as the dead!
148
They lay beside the glittering rills,
With visions in their darkened eye;
Their joy was not amidst the hills,
Where elk and deer before them fly;
Their spears upon the cedar hung,
Their javelins to the winds were flung.
With visions in their darkened eye;
Their joy was not amidst the hills,
Where elk and deer before them fly;
Their spears upon the cedar hung,
Their javelins to the winds were flung.
They bent no more the forest bow,
They armed not with the warrior-band;
The moon waved o'er them, dim and slow—
They left us, for the Spirit Land!
Beneath our pines, yon green-sward heap
Shows where the restless found their sleep.
They armed not with the warrior-band;
The moon waved o'er them, dim and slow—
They left us, for the Spirit Land!
Beneath our pines, yon green-sward heap
Shows where the restless found their sleep.
| The literary remains of the late Willis Gaylord Clark | |