Made gods and heroes into being start.
Perchance some mystic mound may wake the spell:
A crumbled skull—a spear—a vase of clay
Within its bosom half the tale may tell—
And all the rest 'tis fancy's gift to say.
Alas! that ruthless science in these days,
To its stern crucible hath brought at last,
The cherished shapes that all so fondly gaze
Upon us from the dim poetic past!
Else might these moonlit prairies show at dawn,