Kentucky, the Bloody Land

Here, with its Indian tombs, the Bloody Land
Spreads out — majestic forests, secular oaks,
Woods stretching into woods; a witching realm.
Yet haunted with dread shadows — a vast grave
Where, laid together in the sleep of death,
Rest myriads of the red men and the pale.
Here, the stern forest genius, veteran Boone,
Still harbors: still he hearkens, as of yore.
To never-ceasing harmonies, that blend,
At night, the murmurs of a thousand sounds,
That rise and swell capricious, change yet rise.
Borne from far wastes immense, whose mingling strains —
The forest organ's tones, the sylvan choir —
Thy breath alone, O God! canst animate.
Making it fruitful in the matchless space!
Thy mighty fingers pressing on its keys.
How suddenly the billowy tones roll up
From the great temples of the solemn depths.
Resounding through the immensity of wood
To the grand, gushing harmonies, that speak
For Thee, alone, O Father. As we hear
The unanimous concert of this mighty chaunt.
We bow before Thee; eyes uplift to Heaven,
We pray Thee, and believe. A Christian sense
Informs us, though untaught in Christian books,
Awed into worship, as we learn to know
That Thou, O God, art in the solitude!

[Extract]