And the true words forgotten, save by one,
Who hears them faintly sounding from the past,
Mingled with death-songs in each fitful blast.”
Then spoke the wanderer forth with kindling eye:
“Son of the wilderness! despair thou not,
Though the bright hour may seem to thee gone by,
And the cloud settled o’er thy nation’s lot!
Heaven darkly works—yet, where the seed hath been,
There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen.
“Hope on, hope ever!—by the sudden springing