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94
W. C. SCULLY.
And on the rocks, in deathless hue,
The records of a perished race
That from this land of ours withdrew
In silence, leaving scarce a trace.
Poor waifs upon creation's skirts,
Your melancholy history,
To men of earnest mind, asserts
A problem, and a mystery:
Whence came ye? Wherefore did ye live
To wither from the sphere of being—
And why did Nature to ye give
No ears to hear, nor eyes for seeing?—
The music and the light whereby
All men must walk, to guide your steps
Along life's path beneath the sky,
Between the snaring pitfall deeps;
Ye sank from something higher far,
And, distanced in life's struggling race,
Your last and failing remnants are
Erased from off the great world's face.
W. C. Scully.
