Sic Transit

A tower a hundred feet erect
Looks round upon the scene which girds;
'Tis here at eve the clouds collect,
At dawn a trysting-place for birds.
Here hills and streams the observer hold,
Or boundless prairie mocks the eyes:
Some famous warriors of old
Made this their bloody battle-prize.
The centuries of time roll on,
And I, a traveller, passing there,
Mark firs and cypresses all gone.
And grave-mounds, high and low, laid bare.
The ruined tombs uncared-for stand —
Where do their wandering spirits hide? -
Oh, glory makes us great and grand,
And yet it has its seamy side.