By night I saw the Hunter's moon Slow gliding in the placid sky; Her lustre mocked the sun at noon -- I asked myself the reason why? And straightway came the sad reply: She shines as she was wont to do To aid the Indian's aiming eye, When by her light he strung his bow, But where is he? Beside the ancient flood I strayed, Where dark traditions mark the shore; With wizzard vision I essayed Into the misty past to pore. I heard a mournful voice deplore The perfidy that slew his race; 'T was in a dialect of yore, And of a long-departed race. It answered me! I wrought with ardor at the plough One smoky Indian-summer day; The dank locks swept my heated brow, I bade the panting oxen stay. Beneath me in the furrow lay A relic of the chase, full low; I brushed the crumbling soil away -- The Indian fashioned it, I know, But where is he? When pheasants drumming in the wood Allured me forth my aim to try, Amid the forest lone I stood, And the dead leaves went rustling by. The breeze played in the branches high; Slow music filled my listening ear; It was a wailing funeral cry, For Nature mourned her children dear. It answered me! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FAREWELL TO NANCY by ROBERT BURNS THE FRAILTY AND HURTFULNESS OF BEAUTY by HENRY HOWARD IN MEMORIAM A.H.H.: 101 by ALFRED TENNYSON THE COLLAR-BONE OF A HARE by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS EHEU, FUGACES! by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 26. AL-MUZIL by EDWIN ARNOLD |