Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/197

1830-40.] THOMAS H. SHREVE. 181 And traced out on the boundless blue of heaven The wanderings of worlds. Its voice goes forth, And o'er the billows of time's wasteful sea It rolleth on forever. It hath sung Old Ocean's praise, and with his surges' roar Its song will ever mingle. TO AN INDIAN MOUND. "Whence, and why art thou here, mysteri- ous mound ? Are questions which man asks, but asks in vain ; For o'er thy destinies a night profound, All rayless and all echoless, doth reign. A thousand years have passed like yester- day, Since wint'ry snow^s first on thy bosom slept. And much of mortal grandeur passed away, Since thou hast here thy voiceless vigils kept. While standing thus upon thy oak-crowned head, The shadows of dim ages long since gone Reel on my mind, like specters of the dead, While dirge-like music haunts the wind's low moan. From out the bosom of the boundless Past Thei'e rises up no voice of thee to tell : Eternal silence, like a shadow vast. Broods on thy breast, and shrouds thine annals welL Didst thou not antedate the rise of Rome, Egyptia's pyramids, and Grecian arts ? Did not the wild deer here for shelter come Before the Tyrrhene sea had ships or marts ? Through shadows deep and dark the mind must pierce. Which glaces backward to that ancient time: Nations before it fall in struggles fierce. Where human glory fades in human crime. Upon the world's wide stage full many a scene Of grandeur and of gloom, of blood and blight, Hath been enacted since thy forests green Sighed in the breeze and smiled in morn- ing's light. Thou didst not hear the woe, nor heed the crime. Which darken'd earth through ages of distress ; Unknowing and unknown, thou stood'st sublime, And calmly looked upon the wilderness. The red man oft hath lain his aching head, When weary of the chase, upon thy breast ; And as the slumberous hours fast o'er him fled. Has dreamed of hunting-grounds in climes most blest. Perhaps his thoughts ranged through the long past time. Striving to solve the problem of thy birth. Till wearied out with dreams, dim though sublime. His fancy fluttered back to him and earth. The eagle soaring through the upper air. Checks his proud flight, and glances on thy crest,