 | Poems by John B. Tabb |  |
153
THE INDIAN OF SAN SALVADOR.
What time the countless arrow-heads of lightKeen twinkled on the bended heavens, back-drawn
With deadly aim, at signal of the Dawn,
To slay the slumbering, dusky warrior, Night;
I dreamed a dream: And, lo! three spirits, white
As mist that gathers when the rain is gone,
Came walking o'er the waters, whereupon
The very waves seemed quivering with affright
I woke and heard, while yet the vision stayed,
A prophecy: “Behold the coming race
Before whose feet the forest kings shall fall
Prostrate; and ye, like twilight shadows tall
That wither at the sun's uplifted face,
Shall pass in silence to a deeper shade.”
| Poems by John B. Tabb | |