TO AN ARROW-HEAD by ALEXANDER LOUIS FRASER

I find thee here upon this field,—
A treasure by the plough revealed!
While yonder stream bore the canoe
Of vanished men who fashioned you;
Their whoop rang through the skyless wood
Where Industry doth blow
Her trumpets frequent, loud, and rude,
Which change the sylvan solitude
That ruled the long ago.

The Past would be in easy reach
Hadst thou to-day the power of speech;
What wondrous tales of days of yore
Were mine:—the part thine owner bore
In feuds where now wide wheatfields wave;
In chase where glades are not;
Of eyes that did for pity crave;
Of many a long-forgotten grave,—
Perhaps in this selfsame spot!

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