Charles Sangster (1822–1893)

MY footsteps press where, centuries ago,

The Red Men fought and conquered; lost and won.

Whole tribes and races, gone like last year’s snow,

Have found the Eternal Hunting-Grounds, and run

The fiery gauntlet of their active days,

Till few are left to tell the mournful tale:

And these inspire us with such wild amaze

They seem like spectres passing down a vale

Steeped in uncertain moonlight, on their way

Towards some bourne where darkness blinds the day,

And night is wrapped in mystery profound.

We cannot lift the mantle of the past:

We seem to wander over hallowed ground:

We scan the trail of Thought, but all is overcast.