Goderich.
By Thomas Frederick Young
Where once the red deer, wolf or bear,
Pursued by hardy Indian braves,
Lay low, in cunning grove or lair,
And listen'd to the rolling waves.
Where once the maple and the beech,
In nature's splendor tower'd high,
Far, far beyond the white man's reach,
Was this lone spot, in years gone by.
The lofty bank, and level plain,
With wide-mouth'd maitland stretch'd to view,
Look'd out upon the inland main,
And back, where virgin forests grew.
No harbor then, nor water-break,
Made by the mind and hand of man,
But fast into the rolling lake,
In nature's course, the river ran.
No pennon stream'd from lofty mast,
No ships were there, propell'd by steam,
For then, instead of whistle blast,
Was heard the lordly eagle's scream.
The light canoe of birchen rind,
Sent o'er the waves by skilful oar,
Express'd so plain the untrain'd mind -
Content with this, it wish'd no more.
No chimneys, tall and massive made,
Show'd where the white man ground his corn,
For there no white man yet had stray'd,
Where but the forest child was born.
And now, where spacious mansions stand,
Where grace and culture now reside,
There clasp'd the Indian brave the hand
Of his own war-won forest bride.
Where once the painted warrior wrote
His thoughts in rudely pictur'd signs,
A cultur'd language now we quote,
And write and print, in graceful lines.
Where once the hieroglyphic bark
Told when the warlike bow should twang,
The torch of light with glowing spark,
Is held aloft by faithful Strang.
But there is yet another flame,
With pure and holy light to shed;
And all revere that honor'd name,
And all respect that rev'rend head.
That hoary head, which, from the place
Where mild religion's beams doth play,
Hath warn'd, implor'd our fallen race,
And pray'd, while years have pass'd away.
Beneficent and kind old man,
Accept our humble tributes now,
And when is run thine earthly span,
May fadeless wreathes entwine thy brow.