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

THE LAST OF THE HUNTER-RACE.
Ye lingering few, who suffering bide
Who wander where the falling moon
Looks on Missouri's farthest tide,
Fair silvers o'er each lone lagoon ;
Far-exiled from your native plains
Ye homesick roam the desert-wild,
Or where Sierra-winter reigns,
With mountains high on mountains piled.
With grief in other years unknown,
When crimson ran each bleeding breast,
I hear afar your dying moan
Go shrieking down the fading West.
The fading West !
even now I see
Your footsteps on its farthest shore ;
The fading West !
there soon will be
For you a fading West no more.