Ah! there in desolation cold,

The desert serpent dwells alone,

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown,

Like me, are death-like old.

Then seek we not their camp, - for there
The silence dwells of my despair!

XXXIX.

"But hark, the trump!

to-morrow thou

In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:
E'en from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears,
Amidst the clouds that round us roll!
He bids my soul for battle thirst

He bids me dry the last the first

The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul;

Because I may not stain with grief

The death-song of an Indian chief!”

WYOMING.

WYOMING,

AND

ITS HISTORY.

"MUCH YET REMAINS UNSUNG."

BY WILLIAM L. STONE.

NEW-YORK:

WILEY & PUTNAM.

1841.