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IC LDRARY

TOR, LENOX LILLE FOUNDATION

The spirits of the white man's heaven
Forbid not thee to weep :-
Nor will the Christian host,
Nor will thy father's spirit grieve,
To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave
Of her who loved thee most :
She was the rainbow to thy sight !
Thy sun — thy heaven - of lost delight !

XXXVII. " To-morrow let us do or die ! But when the bolt of death is hurld, Ah! whither then with thee to fly, Shall Outalissi roam the world? Seek we thy once-loved home? The hand is gone that cropt its flowers : Unheard their clock repeats its hours ! Cold is the hearth within their bowers ! And should we hither roam, Its echoes, and its empty tread, Would sound like voices from the dead !

XXXVIII.

“Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,
Whose streams my kindred nation quaff'd,
And by my side, in battle true,
A thousand warriors drew the shaft?

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