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

296 THE LAST OF THE HUNTER-RACE.
Gone all are gone the noble dead,
Save from this sorely-aching breast ;
Though prone I linger, all are fled
Of forms and sounds I love the best.
No more return the days gone by
The mournful waves along the shore
Blend with my own their wail and cry,
And echo back ""No more ! no more ! !"