The Hunter of the Prairies

Ay, this is freedom!—these pure skies Were never stained with village smoke: The fragrant wind, that through them flies, Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke. Here, with my rifle and my steed, And her who left the world for me, I plant me, where the red deer feed In the green desert—and am free. For here the fair savannas know No barriers in the bloomy grass; Wherever breeze of heaven may blow, Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass. In pastures, measureless as air, The bison is my noble game; The bounding elk, whose antlers tear The branches, falls before my aim. Mine are the river-fowl that scream From the long stripe of waving sedge; The bear, that marks my weapon’s gleam, Hides vainly in the forest’s edge; In vain the she-wolf stands at bay; The brinded catamount, that lies High in the boughs to watch his prey, Even in the act of springing, dies. With what free growth the elm and plane Fling their huge arms across my way, Gray, old, and cumbered with a train Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray! Free stray the lucid streams, and find No taint in these fresh lawns and shades; Free spring the flowers that scent the wind Where never scythe has swept the glades. Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere The heavy herbage of the ground, Gathers his annual harvest here, With roaring like the battle’s sound, And hurrying flames that sweep the plain, And smoke-streams gushing up the sky; I meet the flames with flames again, And at my door they cower and die. Here, from dim woods, the aged past Speaks solemnly; and I behold The boundless future in the vast And lonely river, seaward rolled. Who feeds its founts with rain and dew? Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass, And trains the bordering vines, whose blue Bright clusters tempt me as I pass? Broad are these streams—my steed obeys, Plunges, and bears me through the tide. Wide are these woods—I tread the maze Of giant stems, nor ask a guide. I hunt till day’s last glimmer dies O’er woody vale and glassy height; And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.

Collection: 
1814

More from Poet

  • Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armèd hands Encountered in the battle-cloud. Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave,— Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to...

  • OUR 1 band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion’s name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood, Our tent the cypress-tree; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea; We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades...

  • HERE are old trees, tall oaks and gnarled pines, That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet To linger here, among the flitting birds, And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds That...

  • [1861] lay down the axe, fling by the spade; Leave in its track the toiling plough; The rifle and the bayonet-blade For arms like yours were fitter now; And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman’s crookèd brand, and rein The charger on the...

  • O Mother of a mighty race, Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! The elder dames, thy haughty peers, Admire and hate thy blooming years; With words of shame And taunts of scorn they join thy name. For on thy cheeks the glow is spread That tints thy morning hills with red; Thy step,—the wild...