Like tall monument of granite 

 Standeth Tackamuck, the mourner, 

 Grieving for his vanished nation 

 Long years thriving in their vigor 

 'Mong the Bronx hills, but now scattered 

 As dead leaves by blasts of autumn. 



In his vision sad the chieftain 

 Sees of white man's arts the progress 

 Through the long moons — arts transplanted 

 From the distant lands of sunrise 

 To grow fair in western tillage 

 And displace the Indian customs. 



Out of stone brought from the quarries 

 The new builder rears his dwellings 

 Towering like the pines of forest, 

 Steadfast in the gales of winter, 

 Better than the deerskin wigwam 

 Gone from sight upon the morrow. 



Through the waters once so tranquil — 

 On their placid wave reflecting 

 All the blueness of the heaven — 

 Now the boats of the bold stranger, 

 Every birch canoe surpassing, 

 Swiftly dash, like the strong salmon. 



O'er the plains the steam horse rushes, 

 Faster than the flying pony 

 Ridden once by fearless warrior; 

 In the air above the tree tops 

 Soar the winged ships like eagles, 

 Mounting to the highest heaven. 



All, O Tackamuck, has altered 

 Since in Bronx woods roamed thy people; 

 Yet their setting suns are followed 

 By a better morning's sunrise 

 For the Indian who surviveth 

 And for him who is thy brother. 



'Tis the will of the Great Spirit 

 Ruling high above the storm clouds, 

 Maker of this earth so beauteous, 

 With its satisfying fountains 

 Flowing full for all his children, 

 Both the Red Man and the Pale Face. 



— A. B. Sanford. 



