But if some luckless native minstrel twine
A votive chaplet for Apollo's shrine;
Though every flower on high Parnassus grew,
By Fancy nourished with Castalian dew;
Though Harmony hath breathed her soul around
The mystic zone, in which their stems are bound;
We catch no fragrance, proffer no regard,
And cold disdain repels the hapless bard.
Oh, my soul sickens, at the niggard meed, (4) By apathy to native worth decreed;
Scorns the perverted taste, that still must roam
In quest of dainties which abound at home;
Longs for the days to come-and come they must—
To others liberal, to ourselves more just;
When my loved countrymen shall learn to prize
The wildwood flowers, that bloom beneath their native skies.
Meantime unknown to fame, unskilled to guide
My slender bark across the stormy tide
I launch, adventurous, on the fickle sea
Where those who seek renown oft find obscurity.
If genius guide the helm and trim the sail,
'Tis glorious to succeed-and great to fail:
Cheered by the thought, I dare the high emprize
And tempt my fate-perchance more valiant far than wise.
October's sun shone, mildly bright,
On Mississippi's waves of light,
And e'en Ohio's darker stream
Glanced gaily back his mellow beam
On Erigonia's hundred spires,
That gleamed like Scotia's beacon-fires;
When Gondibert, in pride of place,
Stern king of Scania's powerful race,
Summoned his nobles, near and far,
To grace the pomp of sylvan war.
Three days, his royal will decreed
To urge the chase with hound and steed;
And on the fourth, the gathered spoil
Of all their sport and all their toil,
In one vast quarry to array
And thence, with pious care, convey
Of every kind, the fairest nine
And offer them at Odin's shrine.-
'Twas an old custom, which his sire
Who fled, long since, from Harold's ire,
Had brought from Norway, o'er the sea,
And he observed it, annually.
For Scania's sons-though fabling pride (1)
Their lineage to the gods allied-
Were the descendants of the crew
Of shipwrecked outlaws, bold but few,
Who, led by Naddohr, left the coast
Of Norway, and by tempests tossed,
On Nova Scotia's savage strand,
With nought but life, came late to land.
Long was their wandering; but at last,
Through many a wild and trackless waste,
By Mississippi's hoary flood
The homeless, houseless wanderers stood;
And found them there a place of rest
Richer than Araby the Blest.
Wild was the scene, but all as fair
As fancy's fondest visions are,
And seemed, to those its haunts who trod,
A paradise, without its God.
Here, on the right, Ohio rolled
His tribute waters, swift and bold;
Like some rich vassal, proud to bring
The fairest off'ring to his king:
While there-broad, deep, impetuous, strong
Old Mississippi swept along;
As though he scorned the needless tide
Ohio's feebler founts supplied.
The deep, embowering woods, around,
With vines and mantling ivy crowned,
And thousand flowers, of varied hue,
Fresh from their birth and moist with dew,
Shed fragrance-rich as poets sing
Elysian gales were wont to fling
Round those blest souls, by Minos given
On earth, an antepast of heaven:
Seemed, that of nature's birth, the fairest,
Of nature's boons, the richest, rarest,
Some fairy hand had culled, with care,
Spell-bound them all, and placed them there.
And there, the wanderers stayed their feet And wept, like infancy, to meet Unlooked, unhoped for, term so fair
To all their toil and all their care.
And there a rustic vill they reared,
Gathered wild maize, the forest cleared; (2)
And-but that memory's busy finger,
Unbid, would still delight to stray
From present bliss, to point and linger
O'er friends, home, kindred, far away-
Not Eden's tenants, ere their shame
And guilt, by the Destroyer, came,
Tasted life's joys with richer zest,
Were more contented, or more blest.
In peace they dwelt; the Indian, wild,
Bland nature's free but simple child,
Beheld, with terror and surprise,
Their race increase, their cities rise,
And hid him in some wildwood glen;
Deeming the gods had left the skies (3)
To tabernacle there, like men.
Time sped; their vill, a city grown,
Changed huts of reed for domes of stone;
And that small band, without a name,
A nation, proud and vast, became;
Whose empire, spreading broad and far,
Lay, mid the darkling forests round,
Like evening's mild and lovely star,
Beaming and bright through night's profound.
And Gondibert's imperial sway
Six hundred thousand souls obey
All Scanians true; the ninth was he
Of Naddohr's royal pedigree,
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