Like the lone emigrant who seeks a home
In the wild regions of the far-off west,
And where, as yet, no foot of man hath come,
Rears a rude dwelling for his future rest.
Like him I have sought out a solitude
Where all around me is unsullied yet,
And reared a tenement of words as rude
As the first hut on Indian prairies set.
O'er his poor house ere thrice the seasons tread
Their march of storm and sunshine o'er the land,
Some lofty pile will rear its haughty head,
And sway the soil with high and proud command.
And round my verse the better, brighter thought
Of beauty and of genius will be placed--
Those gem-like words, with light and music fraught,
By manly or by fairy fingers traced.
Our fate's the same--the gentle and the proud
Will speed their voyage to oblivion's sea,
And I shall soon be lost amid the crowd
That seek a place within thy memory.