Gone are my tribesmen, and another race,
_Born of the foam_, disclose with plough and spade
Secrets of battle-field and burial-place;
And hunting grounds, once dark with pleasant shade,
Bask in the golden light:--but I have made
A pilgrimage from far to look once more
On scenes through which in childhood's hour I strayed,
Though robbed of might my limbs, my locks all hoar,
And on this Holy Mount mourn for the days of yore,