Where silent sea-doves slip and sweep,

And commerce keeps her loom and weaves.

The dead red men refuse to rest;

Their ghosts illume my lurid West.

CROSSING THE PLAINS[[3]]

What great yoked brutes with briskets low,

With wrinkled necks like buffalo,

With round, brown, liquid, pleading eyes,

That turn’d so slow and sad to you,

That shone like love’s eyes soft with tears,