By night I saw the Hunter's moon Slow gliding in the placid sky;Her lustre mocked the sun at noon -- I asked myself the reason why?And straightway came the sad reply: She shines as she was wont to doTo aid the Indian's aiming eye, When by her light he strung his bow, But where is he?
Beside the ancient flood I strayed, Where dark traditions mark the shore;With wizzard vision I essayed Into the misty past to pore.I heard a mournful voice deplore The perfidy that slew his race;'T was in a dialect of yore, And of a long-departed race. It answered me!
I wrought with ardor at the plough One smoky Indian-summer day;The dank locks swept my heated brow, I bade the panting oxen stay.Beneath me in the furrow lay A relic of the chase, full low;I brushed the crumbling soil away -- The Indian fashioned it, I know, But where is he?
When pheasants drumming in the wood Allured me forth my aim to try,Amid the forest lone I stood, And the dead leaves went rustling by.The breeze played in the branches high; Slow music filled my listening ear;It was a wailing funeral cry, For Nature mourned her children dear. It answered me!
