Now, whilst broad grass-flats skimming o’er. What thrilling dreams of days of yore,-- Of bison hunts that are no more; Of Indians red that vanished, too, Like much big game “ye old-time hunters” slew. Save a few prong-horns, fleet and sly, That still roam o’er these deserts dry, Those beasts,--those nomads,--all are gone! Like shifting sands, they hurried on, As phantoms in a wizard’s glass, Seen but a moment e’er they pass. Such memories flash across my mind, Then fading, leave regrets behind. But hence, ye dreams! Away! Away! Time is so brisk, so very fleeting; High rolls the sun,--supreme his sway;-- Hot, red hot! on my poor head his beams are beating. But no complaint,--I hunt to-day! To-day I seek the noble quarry; Just as of old I come to slay, (I yearn to bag at least one prong-horn wary!) But all in vain I scan the plain: I scower, likewise, the ridges airy. I halt, glance back, dash on again, From right to left I keep a turning; I plunge among the sand-hills burning, Then in and out, around and over, But I can find those sly beasts nowhere,--never! Nay, neither hoof nor horn have I spied; In all my mad Mazeppa ride; Tempted by the mirage lake, Mocking thirst it cannot slake, Scanning landscapes dim and hazy, Till my eyeballs nearly burst, Till I seem a-going crazy From pangs of heat and thirst, Down, down to yonder sandy creek I will hie, I must drink--and drink p-d-q--or surely I shall die. Evening scents, and odors cool, Flights of ducks above a pool; Now, in the bunched sand-grass lying, From a high hill-top I am spying; In a neighboring deep ravine, Stands my hobbled steed unseen; All around, elsewhere, a cheerless waste,-- But see, there! At last! at last! Trooping up yon sunny slope, There! there! behold! My long-sought antelope!