Volume 33 — THE LAND OF THE WEST.

Thou land whose deep forest was wide as the sea, And heaved its broad ocean of green to the day, Or, waked by the tempest, in terrible glee Flung up from its billows the leaves like a spray; The swift birds of passage still spread their fleets there, Where sails the wild vulture, the pirate of air. Thou land whose dark streams, like a hurrying horde Of wilderness steeds without rider or rein, Swept down, owning Nature alone for their lord, Their foam flowing free on the air like a mane:— Oh grand were thy waters which spurned as they ran The curb of the rock and the fetters of man! Thou land whose bright blossoms, like shells of the sea, Of numberless shapes and of many a shade, Begemmed thy ravines where the hidden springs be, And crowned the black hair of the dark forest maid:— Those flowers still bloom in the depth of the wild To bind the white brow of the pioneer's child. Thou land whose last hamlets were circled with maize, And lay like a dream in the silence profound, While murmuring its song through the dark woodland ways The stream swept afar through the lone hunting-ground:— Now loud anvils ring in that wild forest home And mill-wheels are dashing the waters to foam. Thou land where the eagle of Freedom looked down From his eyried crag through the depths of the shade, Or mounted at morn where no daylight can drown The stars on their broad field of azure arrayed:— Still, still to thy banner that eagle is true, Encircled with stars on a heaven of blue!