1851.
[Illustration: Frontispiece]
And 'mid the awful stillness
Of their grave,
The forest oaks have flourished--
And the breath
Of years hath swept their races,
Wave on wave,
As ages fainted
On the shores of death.
The tumbling cliff perchance
Hath thundered deep,
Like a rough note
Of music in the song
Of centuries, and the whirlwind's
Crushing sweep,
Hath ploughed the forest
With its furrows strong.
[Illustration: Vignette]