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Around a far uplifted cone,
But soon a funeral hymn was heard Where the soft breath of evening stirred The tall, gray forest; and a band Of stern in heart, and strong in hand, Came winding down beside the wave, To lay the red chief in his grave.
They sang, that by his native bowers He stood, in the last moon of flowers, And thirty snows had not yet shed Their glory on the warrior's head ; But, as the summer fruit decays, So died he in those naked days.
A dark cloak of the roebuck's skin
Before, a dark-haired virgin train
Stripped of his proud and martial dress, Uncurbed, unreined, and riderless, With darting eye, and nostril spread, And heavy and impatient tread, He came; and oft that eye so proud Asked for his rider in the crowd.
They buried the dark chief: they freed Beside the grave his battle steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart ! One piercing neigh Arose, — and, on the dead man's plain, The rider grasps his steed again.