TURK

BIC LIBRARY

ATOR, LENOX

ILDEN 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 sunthy heaven - of lost delight!

XXXVII.

"To-morrow let us do or die !
But when the bolt of death is hurl'd,
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?