The league of the Iroquois and other legends : from the Indian muse

PROEM.
And often to my tearful eye,
When yonder orbs grow dim and pale,
Tall, painted, sable forms go by,
And on the night -winds shriek and wail.
Oh !
dusky shades do verily haunt
The failing ground on which I tread ;
Or out of love's imweaning want
Is born a semblance of the dead.
And once familiar voices call,
Sad as the night - bird's mournful cries,
From out the hush at twilight -fall
Where prone each tented roof- tree lies ;
Or where the latest watch-fire shone,
Or plume -crowned warrior lingered last ;
Where darkly rests each fading, lone
Memento of a glory passed.
Mementos ? ah ! where shall I turn
For relics of the things that were ?
No fragment of life's broken urn
Rests by each empty sepulcher ;
Of noblest breasts beneath the sands
Is left no monumental trace ;
No grave-posts set by loving hands,
No to -terns mark their dwelling place.