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The spirits of the white man's heaven
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 !
“Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,