I sing a time when o'er this region waved The flag of Sweden; when the Delaware's flood Was yet unnamed by English tongue; when dwelt By many a creek, on many a sunny knoll, The fair-haired, sturdy children of the North. Three hundred years, almost, have come and gone Since on this strand, with banners waving bright, Fair Scandia set her foot. What shapes arise From out the past, and gather round me! What Forgotten sounds accost my ear! I see The log-built fort on Tinicum, the flag Which hangs so drowsily in the summer air, The sentries pacing to and fro, the flash Of bayonets in the sun. I see the quaint Costumes of Sweden as, on Sabbath days, The people gather to the church: a tongue Unknown by us they speak. Ah, like a dream, Useless to call to mind, that simpler time To the keen race which treads our streets to-day. These half-forgotten stories, culled with love From books scarce-known, take, you who care to read. |