Music — Poetry — Fiction 



They come — from haunts a thousand leagues away, 1847 



From ancient mounds, with deserts wide between. 



Cliffs, whose tall summits catch the parting day. 

 And prairies blooming in eternal green; 



Yet the bright valley, and the flower-lit meadow, 



And the drear waste of wilderness, all past — 

 Like that strange Life of which thou art the shadow. 



Must take the inevitable plunge at last. 



Whither we know not — but above the wave 



A gentle, white-robed spirit sorrowing stands, 

 Type of the rising from that darker grave, 



Which waits the wanderer from Life's weary lands. 



How long these wondrous forms, these colours splendid, 



Their glory over the wilderness have thrown! 

 How long that mighty anthem has ascended 



To Him who wakened its eternal tone! 



That everlasting utterance thou shalt raise, 



A thousand ages ended, still the same, 

 When this poor heart, that fain would add its praise, 



Has mouldered to nothing whence it came; 



When the white dwellings of man's busy brood, 

 Now reared in myriads o'er the peopled plain, 



Like snows have vanished, and the ancient wood 

 Shall echo to the eagle's shriek again, 



And all the restless crowds that now rejoice, 



And toil and traffic, in their eager moods, 

 Shall pass — and nothing save thine awful voice 



Shall break the hush of these vast solitudes. 



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