He stands upon a time-worn block; His dark form shades the snowy rock As cypress marble tomb: Nor fierce yet wild and sad his mien, His cloud-black tresses wave and stream, His deep tones break the gloom. "Son of a tribe accursed, of those Whose greed has broken our repose Of the long ages dead, Think ye, for nought our ancient race Leaves olden haunts, the sacred place Of toils for ever fled? "List while I tell of days to come, When men shall wish the hammers dumb That ring so ceaseless now; That every arm were palsy-tied, Nor ever wet on grey hillside Was the gold-seeker's brow. "I see the old world's human tide Set southward on the ocean wide. I see a wood of masts, While crime or want, disease or death, With each sigh of the north-wind's breath, He on this fair shore casts. "I see the murderer's barrel gleam, I hear the victim's hopeless scream Ring through these crimeless wastes; While each base son of elder lands Each witless dastard, in vast bands To the gold-city hastes. "Disease shall claim her ready toll, Flushed vice and brutal crime the dole Of life shall ne'er deny; Danger and death shall stalk your streets, While staggering idiocy greets The horror-stricken eye! "All men shall roll in the gold mire-- The height, the depth of man's desire-- Till come the famine years; Then all the land shall curse the day When first they rifled the dull clay, With deep remorseful tears. "Fell want shall wake to fearful life The fettered demons. Civil strife Rears high a gory hand! I see a blood-splashed barricade, While dimly lights the twilight glade The soldier's flashing brand. "But thou, son of the forest free! Thou art not, wert not foe to me, Frank tamer of the wild! Thou hast not sought the sunless home Where darkly delves the toiling Gnome, The mid-earth's swarthy child. "Then, be thou ever, as of yore, A dweller in the woods, and o'er Fresh plains thy herds shall roam. Join not the vain and reckless crowd Who swell the city's pageant proud, But prize thy forest home." He said: and, with an eldritch scream, The Gnome-king vanished--and my dream: Dawn's waking hour returned; Yet still the wild tones echoed clear, For many a day in reason's ear, And my heart inly burned. THE DEATH OF WELFORD[1] Out by the far west-waters, On the sea-land of the South, Untombed the bones of a white man lay, Slowly crumbling to kindred clay-- Sad prayer from Death's mute mouth!