Say, shall not I at last attain 



Some height, from whence the I'ast is clear, 



Tn whose immortal atmosphere 

 I shall behold my dead again ? 



Bayard Taylor. 



For the fires grow cold and the dances fail, 



And the songs in their echoes die; 

 And what have we left but the graves beneath, 



And. above, the waiting sky? 



The Song of the Ancient People. 



My Father, have pity on me! 

 I have nothing to eat, 

 I am dying of thirst — 

 Everything is gone ! 



Arapaho Ghost Song. 



643 



