There, in yon cleft, is still the mark
Of bygone fires whose flames are dead
As those who lit them—life's strange spark
And glowing ember, each has sped.
And by the south wind's gentle sigh
The flickering, sunlit leaves are turned,
And from the cliffs the brown hawks cry
To-day, as when each brightly burned.
Through fancy's glass I see around
The shades of long-dead forms arisen;
They move and breathe without a sound,
And live in their brief poet-season;
There lie their bows, their arrows keen,
Whilst on the fire an earthen pot
Holds, simmering slowly, foul and green,
The arrow-poison's fœtid clot.
There lies an antelope, fresh killed,
By hungry stomachs close surrounded,
And there's a wicker-basket filled
With luscious locusts, freshly pounded;
And look, the glowing coals upon,
A scaly snake is quickly toasting,
Whilst on that ledge, there in the sun,
The hunters of their deeds are boasting.
'Tis gone; 'twas but a glimpse, a flash,
That for an instant lit the past;
I see now but the water dash
In quivering spray-sheets downward cast,
