THE PASSING RACE.

I.

Silent as ever, stoic as of old,

The scattered nomads of that dusky race

Whose story shall forever be untold,

Sit mid the ruins of their dwelling place

And watch the white man's empire grow apace.

Passive as one who knows his earthly doom,

And only waits with calm but hopeless face

The while the seasons go with blight and bloom,

So live they day by day beside their nation's tomb.

II.

In the deep woods and by the rolling streams

They made their home, and knew no other clime;

They lived their lives and dreamed barbaric dreams,

Nor heard the menace of relentless Time

As on his thunderous legions swept sublime

Bearing the torch of progress through the night,

Till lo! the primal wastes were all a-chime

With traffic's strange new music, and the might

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