XVI.

And there, no traces left by brighter days For glory lost may wake a sigh of grief; Some grassy mound, perchance, may meet his gaze, The lone memorial of an Indian chief. There man not yet hath mark’d the boundless plain With marble records of his fame and power; The forest is his everlasting fane, The palm his monument, the rock his tower: Th’ eternal torrent and the giant tree Remind him but that they, like him, are wildly free.