Whole tribes and races, gone like last year's snow,
Have found the Eternal Hunting-Grounds, and run
The fiery gauntlet of their active days,
Till few are left to tell the mournful tale:
And these inspire us with such wild amaze
They seem like spectres passing down a vale
Steep'd in uncertain moonlight, on their way
Towards some bourn where darkness blinds the day,
And night is wrapp'd in mystery profound.
We cannot lift the mantle of the past: