THESE lovely shores! how lone and still!
A hundred years ago
The unbroken forest stood above,
The waters dashed below,—
The waters of a lonely sea
Where never sail was furled,
Embosomed in a wilderness,
Which was itself a world.
A hundred years! go back, and, lo!
Where, closing in the view,
Juts out the shore, with rapid oar
Darts round a frail canoe:
’ Tis a white voyager, and see,
His prow is westward set
O’ er the calm wave! Hail to thy bold,
World-seeking bark, Marquette!
The lonely bird, that picks his food
Where rise the waves and sink,
At their strange coming, with shrill scream,
Starts from the sandy brink;
The fishhawk, hanging in mid sky,
Floats o’ er on level wing,
And the savage from his covert looks,
With arrow on the string.
A hundred years are past and gone,
And all the rocky coast
Is turreted with shining towns,—
An empire’ s noble boast;
And the old wilderness is changed
To cultured vale and hill;
And the circuit of its mountains
An empire’ s numbers fill!