Has settled where they dwelt. The prairie-wolf
Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den
Yawns by my path. The gopher mines the ground
Where stood their swarming cities. All is gone:
All save the piles of earth that hold their bones;

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The platforms where they worshipped unknown gods;
The barriers which they builded from the soil

To keep the foe at bay, till o'er the walls
The wild beleaguerers broke, and, one by one,

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With corpses. The brown vultures of the wood

The strongholds of the plain were forced and heaped

Flocked to those vast uncovered sepulchres,

And sat, unscared and silent, at their feast.

Haply some solitary fugitive,

Lurking in marsh and forest, till the sense
Of desolation and of fear became

Bitterer than death, yielded himself to die.

Man's better nature triumphed then: kind words
Welcomed and soothed him; the rude conquerors
Seated the captive with their chiefs; he chose
A bride among their maidens, and at length
Seemed to forget-yet ne'er forgot the wife
Of his first love, and her sweet little ones
Butchered amid their shrieks, with all his race.
Thus change the forms of being. Thus arise
Races of living things, glorious in strength,
And perish, as the quickening breath of God
Fills them or is withdrawn. The red man, too,
Has left the blooming wilds he ranged so long,
And, nearer to the Rocky Mountains, sought
A wilder hunting-ground. The beaver builds
No longer by these streams, but far away,
On waters whose blue surface ne'er gave back
The white man's face, among Missouri's springs,
And pools whose issues swell the Oregon,
He rears his little Venice. In these plains
The bison feeds no more: twice twenty leagues
Beyond remotest smoke of hunter's camp,
Roams the majestic brute, in herds that shake
The earth with thundering steps-yet here I meet
His ancient footprints stamped beside the pool.

Still this great solitude is quick with life.

Myriads of insects, gaudy as the flowers

They flutter over, gentle quadrupeds,

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And birds that scarce have learned the fear of man,
Are here, and sliding reptiles of the ground,
Startlingly beautiful. The graceful deer

Bounds to the wood at my approach. The bee,

A more adventurous colonist than man,
With whom he came across the eastern deep,
Fills the savannas with his murmurings,
And hides his sweets, as in the golden age,

1832.

Within the hollow oak. I listen long

To his domestic hum, and think I hear

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The sound of that advancing multitude

Which soon shall fill these deserts: from the ground

Comes up the laugh of children, the soft voice

Of maidens, and the sweet and solemn hymn

Of Sabbath worshippers; the low of herds
Blends with the rustling of the heavy grain
Over the dark-brown furrows. All at once

A fresher wind sweeps by and breaks my dream,
And I am in the wilderness alone.

ROBERT OF LINCOLN

Merrily swinging on brier and weed,

Near to the nest of his little dame,

Over the mountain-side or mead

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:

"Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe is that nest of ours,

Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee."

Robert of Lincoln is gayly drest,

1833.

Wearing a bright black wedding-coat;

White are his shoulders and white his crest.

Hear him call in his merry note:

"Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

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5

ΙΟ

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Look what a nice new coat is mine,
Sure there was never a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee."

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,

Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings:
"Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

20

Spink, spank, spink;

Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee."

Soon as the little ones chip the shell
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,

Gathering seeds for the hungry brood.
"Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

This new life is likely to be

Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee."

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