er trees and flowers and grasses,
Yet the song of peace continued.
Peaceful still, yet no more silent;
For where man, with human passion,
Dwells in all this wide creation,
Strife is ever slumb'ring, waiting,
Waiting for the magic touchstone,
For the trouble he is born to,
"Trouble, as the sparks fly upward."
So there rose a reign of terror,
Of dismay and cruel bloodshed,
When the white man came among them,
The all-potent, dreaded pale-face,
He, another bold invader,
An usurper of the woodland.
When he came with might and fury,
And the hatchet was uplifted,
When the war-cry sounded louder,
And the wigwam smoked in ashes,
And the peace-pipe fell forever,
From the lips all stiff and gory;
And the sachem and the chieftain,
And the warrior and the maiden,
Fled for safety from the woodland,
Roaming restless, ever moving,
To the land of deer and bison,
To the rolling, grassy prairies,
To the distant unknown regions,
To the placid, broad Pacific,
To the setting of the sunlight.

CANTO II.
1769-1796.
PIONEERS.

In the days my Muse is singing,
In the days of early settlers
On the "dark and bloody ground," there
Came a pioneer so famous
For his greatness and his goodness,
For his sterling sense of honor,
For his frame of strength and vigor,
For his nature, bold and hardy,
And his spirit, firm and steady,
That the annals of the nation,
The proud archives of the country,
Shout his name in stirring paeans,
Blazon forth his fame and glory,
From the rising to the setting
Of the sun he loved to follow.
Many days and nights he wandered
O'er the turf of good old Garrard,
Now in sight, perchance in hearing,
Of the birds and beasts and reptiles,
Roaming wild and roaming lonely,
In the groves of fair Lancaster.
Now in sight, perchance in hearing
Of the melancholy plover,
Of the bluebird's thrilling whistle,
Of the redbird's gentle chirping,
Of the blackbird's noisy chatter,
Of the whippoorwill's soft pleading,
And the ringdove's tender cooing.
All these sounds, I trow, were welcome,
To the pioneer hunter,
Daniel Boone, the practiced hunter.
On the plains and hills I'm singing,
He has pitched his tent at nightfall,
And has laid him down to slumber,
With his deerskin wrapped about him,