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, She was the rainbow to thy sight! Thy sunthy heaven - of lost delight! XXXVII. "To-morrow let us do or die ! The hand is gone that cropt its flowers: 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? |