L'envoi from Balladeadro

See where the allied armies camped, Where plumed and painted dancers tramped-- 'Tis still the same, the same wild scene, As though the ploughshare ne'er had been. Grey Tomboritha still the skies With bold and massy front defies; And gorge, and chasm, and long-ledged rocks Echo the ever-thundering shocks Of waters dashed with headlong force, Wild cataracts leaping on their course. In dark Maroka's vale the stream Reflects the slanting solar beam; There the proud lyre-bird* spreads his tail, And mocks the notes of hill and dale-- Whether the wild dog's plaintive howl Or cry of piping waterfowl, Or the shrill parrot's answering scream, As, gem-like, dangling o'er the stream He hears, re-echoed from the rock The whirlwind whistle of the flock. Alas! and what a change is there! And yet the landscape still is fair. There smiled the woodland by the rill: 'Tis gone--the waters turn a mill. There the Mirbango village lay: Mirbango maidens, where? O say, Where the tall braves, whose warrior songs Once wooed the dark-eyed Darakongs. Yon sheltered hollow, 'neath the steep, Now dotted o'er with browsing sheep, Holds the last graves the dark man owns-- The treasure of his father's bones. All else, alas! has passed, is o'er; Time's wing has swept hill, vale, and shore; All, hence to farthest northern strand, Obeys the white, "the blood-stained hand;" And grey-beards by the fire at night, Warm, basking in its ruddy light, The young, in solemn tones, advise To shun all stranger-women's eyes. "Our fathers," quoth they, "as we trace, Thus lost a country--doomed a race."