Classic Poem

“White man, thy look is open, kind,
  Thou scornest not a tale of truth!
Should I in thee a mocker find,
  'Twould shame alike thy blood and youth.
I trust thee! well, now look upon
  This wither'd cheek and shrunken form!
Canst think, young man, I was the one
  For whom that maiden dared the storm?
 Yes, often, till a tribesman came—
 It matters not to speak his name—
 A youth as tall, as straight, as I,
 As quick his quarry to descry,
 A hunter bold upon his prey
 As ever struck the elk at bay.
 —But thou shalt see him, if thou wilt
 Gaze on the wreck since made by guilt,—
Where glints its crag-drip to the moon,
And raves through soaking moss the Scroon,
To where Peseco's waters lave
 Its shining strand and beach-clad hills,
From hoarse Ausable's caverned wave
 To Saranac's most northern rills—
These woods around, do they not know
That doomed one's guilt, my sleepless woe?
 Know it in every glen and glade
 Of Adirondac's haunted shade,
Where branches bend or waters flow!