Nebraska–1866
From Nebraska Legends and Poems by Orsamus Charles Dake. 1871.
The virgin of the wilderness,
She sits upon her hills alone;
Loose sprigs of
cedar
in her hair,
A vine-wreath round her zone;
As gray-eyed Pallas pure and
free,
Expectant of the things to be.
No robe of art in pliant fold
Wraps her deep bosom
from the cold,
Nor rustling veil, nor cheap disguise,
Conceals the freshness of
her
eyes.
Beneath her feet an hundred rills
Flash, singing to the naked hills;
And
forest-belted rivers glide
Through prairie valleys, warm and wide.
Not hers are
breadths of palm or pine,
Or sands of gold, or mountain mine,
Or dizzy steeps, or
barren rocks,
But farm-land vales and grass for flocks;
And over her, spanned in
splendor, rise
Mild, changeful depths of cheerful skies.
She looks across her vacant lands,
And feels a virgin’s conscious shame;
Yet not
with her to shape the past—
Oh, not with her the blame!
She smiles benign on every
guest,
And proffers shelter, food, and rest.
To empires thronged with men,
afar,
To states where discord dwells, and war,
She calls, and shows her ample
bound,
And peace within, and peace around.
To families distressed and poor,
To
restless sage and o’ertasked boor,
To broken health and courage spent,
To all the
sons of discontent,
Where’er they pine, whate’er they be,
She cries, “Be thine a
homestead free—
A lordly right of wealthy land,
And health, ease, quiet. At my
hand
Receive the cool, sustaining hours,
And energize thy weakened powers.”
She knows that she was born to be
The mother of a mighty race:
Heroic sons whom
reverence seeks—
Daughters to wear all grace;—
That on her soil there yet must
rise
Whatever prospects good men prize:
The pure church, up whose heaven-topped
spire
Creeps the long sunset’s lingering fire;
The college in whose reverend
shade
Unpolished youths are Grecians made;
And tasteful homes; and those calm
keeps
Where musing memory broods and weeps.
She knows, elate, that she was
born
To blend the sunset with the morn;
To add new vigor to the chain
That
links the mountain to the main;
Till, growing greater and more great,
She sits the
peer of every state;
And all shall love and call her blest—
The virgin Mother of
the
West.