Classic Poem

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.