ANTELOPES. 229 



Up, up, to yon cliff ! like a king to his throne, 



O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone; 



A thpone which the eagle is glad to resign 



Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine. 



There the bright heather springs up in love of thy breast : 



Lo ! the clouds in the depth of the sky are at rest ; 



And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill, 



In the hush of the mountains ye antlers lie still; 



Though your branches now toss in the storm of delight, 



Like the arms of the pine on yon shelterless height, 



One moment, thou bright apparition, delay, 



Then melt o'er the crags, like the sun from the day. 



WILSON. 



This fine animal has been occasionally noticed 

 amid scenes of peculiar interest. A traveller lately 

 observed several of them feeding tranquilly among 

 numerous ancient Indian tumuli, opposite St. Louis. 

 They have been also noticed on the summit of that 

 enormous mound which was occupied a few years 

 since by the monks of La Trappe, though now so 

 overgrown with bushes and weeds, and interlaced 

 with vines and briars, that no accurate measurement 

 can be taken of its dimensions. 



The survey of these productions of human in- 

 dustry, these monuments without inscription, com- 

 memorating the existence of a people once numerous 

 and powerful, but now no longer known or remem- 

 bered, produces an indescribable feeling of sadness. 

 As we stand upon these mouldering piles, we can- 

 not but compare their aspect of decay with the 

 freshness of that wide field of nature which we see 

 reviving around us, their insignificance with the 

 majestic and imperishable features of the landscape. 

 We feel the nothingness, the transitory nature, of 

 everything human; we are reminded of what has 



