The song of the ancient people . . and yet ... on themesa topAs we sit when the sun is low,And, far to west, Franciscos peaks Blaze in his parting glow, —While plain, and rock, and cedar-steepFade slow from rose to gray,And the sand-clouds, blown by theflying wind,Like demons chase the day;And the fires of the wandering mete-ors gleam,And the dire mirage looms farTo beckon us hence to the namelesslandWhere our Lost Others are;18 W$z Ancient people And, weird as the wail by the SpiritLakeBewildered hunters know,The cry of the owl comes mournful up From the dusky glen below, —That boding cry whe
The song of the ancient people . . and yet ... on themesa topAs we sit when the sun is low,And, far to west, Franciscos peaks Blaze in his parting glow, —While plain, and rock, and cedar-steepFade slow from rose to gray,And the sand-clouds, blown by theflying wind,Like demons chase the day;And the fires of the wandering mete-ors gleam,And the dire mirage looms farTo beckon us hence to the namelesslandWhere our Lost Others are;18 W$z Ancient people And, weird as the wail by the SpiritLakeBewildered hunters know,The cry of the owl comes mournful up From the dusky glen below, —That boding cry when death is nigh And days that are dim with woe; —Sit, and think that but ruins mark The realm that erst was ours,The countless cities wrapped in dust Which once were stately powers,And that over our race, as over theplain,The gathering darkness lowers ;And see how great from the Sunrise-landYou come with every boon,We know that ours is the waning,And yours is the waxing moon!Know that our grief and yearningprayers, 19. Ww #ncimt people As reeds in the blast, are vain,And with arrows of keenest anguish Our tortured hearts are slain ;For we are the Ancient People, Born with the wind and rain! But the same Earth spreads for us andyou, And death for both is one;Why should we not be brothers true Before our day is done ?You are many and great and strong; We, only a remnant weak;Our heralds call at sunset still,Yet ah, how few on plain or hill The evening councils seek !And words are dead and lips are dumb Our hopeless woe to the fires grow cold, and the dancesfail, And the songs in their echoes die;20 W$t 3lncimt people And what have we left but the graves beneath,And, above, the waiting sky ? —Our fathers sought these frowningdiffsTTo rid them of their foes,And thrice and more, on the mesafloor,Our terraced towns uprose ;But when the stress of war was past, To the lowlands glad we went,For the plain — the plain is ourdomain,The home of our hearts content;And her
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Keywords: ., bookauthorfiskejoh, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890, bookyear1893
