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!

  Oft have I listened to his accents bland,
    And owned the magic of his silvery voice,
  In all the graces which life’s arts demand,
    Delighted by the justness of his choice. 
  Not his the stream of lavish, fervid thought,—­
  The rhetoric by passion’s magic wrought;
  Not his the massive style, the lion port,
  Which with the granite class of mind assort;
  But, in a range of excellence his own,
  With all the charms to soft persuasion known,
  Amid our busy people we admire him—­“elegant and lone.”

  He scarce needs words, so exquisite the skill
  Which modulates the tones to do his will,
  That the mere sound enough would charm the ear,
  And lap in its Elysium all who hear. 
  The intellectual paleness of his cheek,
    The heavy eyelids and slow, tranquil smile,
  The well cut lips from which the graces speak,
    Fit him alike to win or to beguile;
  Then those words so well chosen, fit, though few,
  Their linked sweetness as our thoughts pursue,
  We deem them spoken pearls, or radiant diamond dew.

  And never yet did I admire the power
    Which makes so lustrous every threadbare theme—­
  Which won for Lafayette one other hour,
    And e’en on July Fourth could cast a gleam—­
  As now, when I behold him play the host,
  With all the dignity which red men boast—­
  With all the courtesy the whites have lost;—­
  Assume the very hue of savage mind,
  Yet in rude accents show the thought refined:—­
  Assume the naivete of infant age,
  And in such prattle seem still more a sage;
  The golden mean with tact unerring seized,
  A courtly critic shone, a simple savage pleased;
  The stoic of the woods his skill confessed,
  As all the Father answered in his breast,
  To the sure mark the silver arrow sped,
  The man without a tear a tear has shed;
  And thou hadst wept, hadst thou been there, to see
  How true one sentiment must ever be,
  In court or camp, the city or the wild,
  To rouse the Father’s heart, you need but name his Child.

  ’Twas a fair scene—­and acted well by all;
  So here’s a health to Indian braves so tall—­
  Our Governor and Boston people all!