210

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ON RHODE ISLAND COAL.

I looked to see it dive in earth outright;

I looked--but saw a far more welcome sight.

Like a soft mist upon the evening shore,
At once a lovely isle before me lay;
Smooth, and with tender verdure covered o'er,

As if just risen from its calm inland bay;
Sloped each way gently to the grassy edge,
And the small waves that dallied with the sedge.

The barley was just reaped-its heavy sheaves
Lay on the stubble field-the tall maize stood
Dark in its summer growth, and shook its leaves-
And bright the sunlight played on the young wood→→→
For fifty years ago, the old men say,

The Briton hewed their ancient groves away.

I saw where fountains freshened the green land,
And where the pleasant road, from door to door
With rows of cherry-trees on either hand,

Went wandering all that fertile region o'er

Rogue's Island once-but, when the rogues were dead, Rhode Island was the name it took instead.

Beautiful island! then it only seemed

A lovely stranger-it has grown a friend.
I gazed on its smooth slopes, but never dreamed
How soon that bright beneficent isle would send
The treasures of its womb across the sea,
To warm a poet's room and boil his tea.

ON RHODE ISLAND COAL.

Dark anthracite! that reddenest on my hearth,

Thou in those island mines didst slumber long; But now thou art come forth to move the earth,

And put to shame the men that mean thee wrong. Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that hate thee, And warm the shins of all that under-rate thee.

Yea, they did wrong thee foully-they who mocked
Thy honest face, and said thou wouldst not burn;
Of hewing thee to chimney-pieces talked,

And grew profane-and swore, in bitter scorn,
That men might to thy inner caves retire,
And there, unsinged, abide the day of fire.

Yet is thy greatness nigh. I pause to state,
That I too have seen greatness-even I—
Shook hands with Adams-stared at La Fayette,
When, barehead, in the hot noon of July,
He would not let the umbrella be held o'er him,
For which three cheers burst from the mob before him.

And I have seen-not many months ago—

An eastern Governor in chapeau bras

And military coat, a glorious show!

Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah!

How oft he smiled and bowed to Jonathan !

How many hands were shook and votes were won!

'Twas a great Governor-thou too shalt be

Great in thy turn-and wide shall spread thy fame,

211

212

ON RHODE ISLAND COAL.

And swiftly; farthest Maine shall hear of thee,

And cold New-Brunswick gladden at thy name, And, faintly through its sleets, the weeping isle That sends the Boston folks their cod shall smile.

For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt heat
The hissing rivers into steam, and drive
Huge masses from thy mines, on iron feet,
Walking their steady way, as if alive,
Northward, till everlasting ice besets thee,
And south as far as the grim Spaniard lets thee.

Thou shalt make mighty engines swim the sea,
Like its own monsters-boats that for a guinea
Will take a man to Havre-and shalt be

The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny,
And ply thy shuttles, till a bard can wear
As good a suit of broadcloth as the mayor.

Then we will laugh at winter when we hear

The grim old churl about our dwellings rave: Thou, from that "ruler of the inverted year,"

Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper gave, And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in, And melt the icicles from off his chin.

AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE

OF HIS FATHERS.

Ir is the spot I came to seek,-
My fathers' ancient burial-place

Ere from these vales, ashamed and weak,

Withdrew our wasted race.

It is the spot, I know it well-
Of which our old traditions tell.

For here the upland bank sends out
A ridge toward the river side;
I know the shaggy hills about,

The meadows smooth and wide,

The plains, that, toward the southern sky,
Fenced east and west by mountains lie.

A white man, gazing on the scene,
Would say a lovely spot was here,
And praise the lawns, so fresh and green,
Between the hills so sheer.

I like it not-I would the plain
Lay in its tall old groves again.

214

AN INDIAN AT THE BURIAL-PLACE

The sheep are on the slopes around,
The cattle in the meadows feed,
And labourers turn the crumbling ground,
Or drop the yellow seed,

And prancing steeds, in trappings gay,

Whirl the bright chariot o'er the way.

Methinks it were a nobler sight

To see these vales in woods arrayed,
Their summits in the golden light,
Their trunks in grateful shade,
And herds of deer, that bounding go
O'er rills and prostrate trees below.

And then to mark the lord of all,

The forest hero, trained to wars,
Quivered and plumed, and lithe and tall,
And seamed with glorious scars,
Walk forth, amid his reign, to dare
The wolf, and grapple with the bear.

This bank, in which the dead were laid,
Was sacred when its soil was ours;
Hither the artless Indian maid

Brought wreaths of beads and flowers,
And the gray chief and gifted seer
Worshipped the god of thunders here.

But now the wheat is green and high
On clods that hid the warrior's breast,