They are gone forth, the desert’s warrior race,
By stormy lakes to track the elk and roe;
But where art thou, the swift one in the chase,
With thy free footstep and unfailing bow?
Their singing shafts have reach’d the panther’s lair,
And where art thou?—thine arrows are not there.
They rest beside their streams—the spoil is won—
They hang their spears upon the cypress bough;
The night-fires blaze, the hunter’s work is done—
They hear the tales of old—but where art thou?