The very river, as though it shared one's
feelings of compassion for the extinct tribes who lived so
pleasantly here in their blessed ignorance of white existence
hundreds of years ago, steals out of its way to ripple near this
mound, and there are few places where the Ohio sparkles more
brightly than in the Big Grave Creek."
Standing here in this lovely region, chosen by a vanished race
as their last resting place, we recalled the words of an Ohio
poet:
"Lonely and sad it stands
The trace of ruthless hands
Is on its sides and summit, and around,
The dwellings of the white man pile the ground,
And curling in the air,
The smoke of thrice a thousand hearths is there:
Without, all speaks of life; within,
Deaf to the city's echoing din,
Sleep well the tenants of that silent Mound,
Their names forgot, their memories unrenown'd.
Upon its top I tread,
And see around me spread
Temples and mansions, and the hoary hills,
Bleak with the labor that the coffer fills,
But mars their bloom the while,
And steals from nature's face its joyous smile:
And here and there, below,
The stream's meandering flow
Breaks on the view; and westward in the sky
The gorgeous clouds in crimson masses lie.
The hammer's clang rings out,
Where late the Indian's shout
Startled the wild fowl from its sedgy nest,
And broke the wild deer's and the panther's rest.
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