Chapter XXI

In broken tones he murmured--"must the name
Of a great people be revived no more,
And like an echo pass away their fame,
Or moccasin's faint impress on the shore
Of the salt lake when billows foam and roar?
Black night enwraps my soul, for she is dead
Who was its light--desire to live is o'er!"
Scarce were these words in mournful accent said,
When peals of thunder shook low vale and mountain-head.