On Receiving An Eagles Quill From Lake Superior

All day the darkness and the cold     Upon my heart have lain,     Like shadows on the winter sky,     Like frost upon the pane;     But now my torpid fancy wakes,     And, on thy Eagles plume,     Rides forth, like Sindbad on his bird,     Or witch upon her broom!     Below me roar the rocking pines,     Before me spreads the lake     Whose long and solemn-sounding waves     Against the sunset break.     I hear the wild Rice-Eater thresh     The grain he has not sown;     I see, with flashing scythe of fire,     The prairie harvest mown!     I hear the far-off voyagers horn;     I see the Yankees trail,     His foot on every mountain-pass,     On every stream his sail.     By forest, lake, and waterfall,     I see his pedler show;     The mighty mingling with the mean,     The lofty with the low.     Hes whittling by St. Marys Falls,     Upon his loaded wain;     Hes measuring oer the Pictured Rocks,     With eager eyes of gain.     I hear the mattock in the mine,     The axe-stroke in the dell,     The clamor from the Indian lodge,     The Jesuit chapel bell!     I see the swarthy trappers come     From Mississippis springs;     And war-chiefs with their painted brows,     And crests of eagle wings.     Behind the scared squaws birch canoe,     The steamer smokes and raves;     And city lots are staked for sale     Above old Indian graves.     I hear the tread of pioneers     Of nations yet to be;     The first low wash of waves, where soon     Shall roll a human sea.     The rudiments of empire here     Are plastic yet and warm;     The chaos of a mighty world     Is rounding into form!     Each rude and jostling fragment soon     Its fitting place shall find,     The raw material of a State,     Its muscle and its mind!     And, westering still, the star which leads     The New World in its train     Has tipped with fire the icy spears     Of many a mountain chain.     The snowy cones of Oregon     Are kindling on its way;     And Californias golden sands     Gleam brighter in its ray!     Then blessings on thy eagle quill,     As, wandering far and wide,     I thank thee for this twilight dream     And Fancys airy ride!     Yet, welcomer than regal plumes,     Which Western trappers find,     Thy free and pleasant thoughts, chance sown,     Like feathers on the wind.     Thy symbol be the mountain-bird,     Whose glistening quill I hold;     Thy home the ample air of hope,     And memorys sunset gold!     In thee, let joy with duty join,     And strength unite with love,     The eagles pinions folding round     The warm heart of the dove!     So, when in darkness sleeps the vale     Where still the blind bird clings     The sunshine of the upper sky     Shall glitter on thy wings!