Excerpt from St. Aspenquid of Mt; Agamenticus: An Indian Idyl
Poor is the land that hath no legend lore, No myths, no muse nor music of its own, Descending through innumerable years, Wherein is stored the life of all the past; As on some ancient shrine the pilgrim's gifts, In rich array each other overhang; And some do sparkle forth a recent fame, Some in dust and venerated age are masked. What has the savage left in this new world For him who seeks a self-sustaining plinth Whereon to rear his modern masonry? He had few fashions that subserve our art; And all have failed that, tempted, strung his shells, And thought it coinage of Apollo's mint. In his rude birchen cabin or canoe, In one no hook for graceful ornament, Nor could the other breast the seas we sail. All eye, all ear, the nature which he faced He named with names that still the poet loves, Though overscrawled with wild ambition's blare. Proud, unabashed, he looked on nature's forms.
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