Sketches of Aboriginal Life

  MONICA,

  OR

  THE ITEAN CAPTIVE.

  What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears Have sunk beneath time's noiseless tide!-- The red man at his horrid rite, Seen by the stars at night's cold noon,-- His bark canoe, its track of light Left on the wave beneath the moon;-- His dance, his yell, his council fire, The altar where his victim lay, His death song, and his funeral pyre, That still, strong tide hath borne away.