PRIMEVAL DAYS.



On the rugged mountain eyrie,
Where the eagle reared her nestlings,
On the tiny brooks that trickled
Down the glens so cool and shaded.
Green and fresh the ferns and mosses,
Clinging close to rock and crevice,
Pure and bright the silver waters,
Dancing o'er the shelving limestone.
Angels saw and angels praised it,
For the gracious Spirit made it,
" Very good " the Spirit called it.
Happy valley ! Peaceful shadows!
Glorious sunlight of an epoch,
Which the latter days can know not!
For the stride of man's progression
Desecrates these pristine beauties,
Bends these gorgeous land-scape beauties,
To his purposes of profit.

And the cycle brought its changes,
As the moons were waxing, waning.
The still tract of virgin woodland,
Was invaded by the demon
That the sweet primeval ages
Soon were destined to encounter,
The remorseless Indian demon,
The bold red man of the forest.
Then the wigwam and the peace-pipe



3