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Such was the dream to the slumber given.
Awakened at morn by the sunlight from heaven,
Forth from his wigwam a fugitive driven,
He camped by the bank of Moshannan at even;
The next, Susquehanna's fair waters beside;
There made him a home; and there Logan died.
In the soil he loved best the white man drew furrow,
And planted his farm, heeding not Logan's sorrow.
A century passes; the dream is fulfilled;
In its midst a rude village is born in the wild.
"Setting up for herself" when a six-year-old child,
What need we her forty years' record to gild?
In Tyrone of To-day the mountain-girt borough
We hail the Gate City, Tyrone of To-morrow.
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