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Most of the popular histories of England, as well as of the American war, give an authentic account of the desolation of Wyoming, in Pennsylvania, which took place in 1778, by an incursion of the Indians. The Scenery and Incidents of the following Poem are connected with that event. The testimonies of historians and travellers concur in describing the infant colony as one of the bappiest spots of human existence, for the hospitable and innocent manners of the inhabitants, the beauty of the country, and the luxuriant fertility of the soil and climate. In an evil hour, the junction of European with Indian arms, converted this terrestrial paradise into a frightful waste. Mr Isaac Weld informs us, that the ruins of many of the villages, perforated with balls, and bearing marks of conflagration were still preserved by the recent inhabitants, when he travelled through America in 1796.
I. On Susquehanna's side, fair Wyoming! Although the wild-flower on thy ruined wall And roofless homes a sad remembrance bring Of what thy gentle people did befall, Yet thou wert once the lovliest land of all That see the Atlantic wave their morn restore. Sweet land! may I thy lost delights recall, And paint thy Gertrude in her bowers of yore, Whose beauty was the love of Pennsylvania's shore.
Delightful Wyoming! beneath thy skies,
The wild deer arched his neck from glades, and then Unhunted, sought his woods and wilderness again.
IV. And scarce had Wyoming of war or crime Heard but in transatlantic story rung, For bere the exile met from every clime, And spoke in friendship ev'ry distant tongue: Men from the blood of warring Europe sprung, Were but divided by the running brook; And happy where no Rhenish trumpet sung, On plains no sieging mine’s volcano shook, [hook. 'The blue-eyed German changed his sword to pruning
V. Nor far some Andalusian saraband Would sound to many a native roundelay. But who is he that yet a dearer land Remembers over hills and far away? Green Albyn !* what though he no more survey Thy ships at anehor on the quiet shore, Thy pellochs rolling from the mountain bay; Thy lone sepulchral cairn upon the moor, And distant isles that hear the loud Corbrechtan roar !1
Who taught those sires of Empire yet to be,