All has been seen,—­dock, railroad, and canal,
  Fort, market, bridge, college, and arsenal,
  Asylum, hospital, and cotton-mill,
  The theatre, the lighthouse, and the jail. 
  The Braves each novelty, reflecting, saw,
  And now and then growled out the earnest “Yaw.” 
  And now the time is come, ’tis understood,
  When, having seen and thought so much, a talk may do some good.

  A well-dressed mob have thronged the sight to greet,
  And motley figures throng the spacious street;
  Majestical and calm through all they stride,
  Wearing the blanket with a monarch’s pride;
  The gazers stare and shrug, but can’t deny
  Their noble forms and blameless symmetry. 
  If the Great Spirit their morale has slighted,
  And wigwam smoke their mental culture blighted,
  Yet the physique, at least, perfection reaches,
  In wilds where neither Combe nor Spurzheim teaches;
  Where whispering trees invite man to the chase,
  And bounding deer allure him to the race.

  Would thou hadst seen it!  That dark, stately band,
  Whose ancestors enjoyed all this fair land,
  Whence they, by force or fraud, were made to flee,
  Are brought, the white man’s victory to see. 
  Can kind emotions in their proud hearts glow,
  As through these realms, now decked by Art, they go? 
  The church, the school, the railroad, and the mart,—­
  Can these a pleasure to their minds impart? 
  All once was theirs,—­earth, ocean, forest, sky,—­
  How can they joy in what now meets the eye? 
  Not yet Religion has unlocked the soul,
  Nor Each has learned to glory in the Whole!

  Must they not think, so strange and sad their lot,
  That they by the Great Spirit are forgot? 
  From the far border to which they are driven,
  They might look up in trust to the clear heaven;
  But here,—­what tales doth every object tell
  Where Massasoit sleeps, where Philip fell!

  We take our turn, and the Philosopher
  Sees through the clouds a hand which cannot err
  An unimproving race, with all their graces
  And all their vices, must resign their places;
  And Human Culture rolls its onward flood
  Over the broad plains steeped in Indian blood
  Such thoughts steady our faith; yet there will rise
  Some natural tears into the calmest eyes,—­
  Which gaze where forest princes haughty go,
  Made for a gaping crowd a raree-show.

  But this a scene seems where, in courtesy,
  The pale face with the forest prince could vie,
  For one presided, who, for tact and grace,
  In any age had held an honored place,—­
  In Beauty’s own dear day had shone a polished Phidian vase!