And from those green arcades a thousand tones
Wake with each breeze, whose voice through Nature’s temple moans.
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,