看看盟军扎营的地方，看看那些穿着羽毛和彩绘的舞者们走过的地方——这还是一样的，同样的荒野景象，仿佛从未有过犁头。灰色的墓碑依旧用粗壮的锋线向天空挑战;峡谷、裂口和长壁的岩石，回响着汹涌澎湃的水流，奔涌而来，汹涌奔涌的大瀑布。在黑暗的马洛卡山谷里，溪水反射着倾斜的太阳光束;在那里，高傲的七弦琴鸟展开它的尾巴，嘲弄着山岭和山谷的音调——无论是野狗的哀嚎，还是水禽的鸣叫，还是鹦鹉的尖啸，都像宝石一样悬在溪水上，他听到鸟群的呼啸声在岩石上回响。唉!这是多么大的变化啊!然而，这里的景色仍然是公平的。溪边的树林微笑着说:“它消失了——河水变成了磨坊。”米尔班戈的村庄就在那里:米尔班戈的姑娘们，在哪里? 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."