We look’d for the chief, who hath left the spear
And the bow of his battles forgotten here:
We look’d for the hunter, whose bride’s lament
On the wind of the forest at eve is sent:
We look’d for the first-born, whose mother’s cry
Sounds wild and shrill through the midnight sky!—
Where are they? Thou’rt seeking some distant coast:
Oh ask of them, stranger!—send back the lost!
Tell them we mourn by the dark-blue streams,
Tell them our lives but of them are dreams!