Where winds are aye at peace, and skies are fair, And purple-skirted clouds curtain the crimson air. So, with the glories of the dying day, Its thousand trembling lights and changing hues, The memory of the brave who passed away Tenderly mingled ;-fitting hour to muse On such grave theme, and sweet the dream that shed Brightness and beauty round the destiny of the dead. For ages, on the silent forests here, Thy beams did fall before the red man came To dwell beneath them; in their shade the deer Fed, and feared not the arrow's deadly aim. Nor tree was felled in all that world of woods, Save by the beaver's tooth, or winds, or rush of floods. Then came the hunter tribes, and thou didst look, For ages on their deeds in the hard chase, And well-fought wars; green sod and silver brook Took the first stain of blood; before thy face The warrior generations came and passed, And glory was laid up for many an age to last. Now they are gone, gone as thy setting blaze Goes down the west, while night is press ing on, And with them the old tale of better days, And trophies of remembered power, are gone. Yon field that gives the harvest, where the plough Strikes the white bone, is all that tells their story now. I stand upon their ashes in thy beam, Beside a stream they loved, this valley stream; band Showed the gray oak by fits, and war-song rung, I teach the quiet shades the strains of this new tongue. Farewell! but thou shalt come again! thy light Must shine on other changes, and behold The place of the thronged city still as night— States fallen-new empires built upon the old But never shalt thou see these realms again Darkened by boundless groves, and roamed by savage men. HYMN TO DEATH. OH! could I hope the wise and pure in heart And mocked thee. On thy dim and shadowy brow They place an iron crown, and call thee king |