XXXV.

And I could weep;'-th' Oneyda chief

His descant wildly thus begun;

'But that I may not stain with grief

• The death-song of my father's son!

• Or bow this head in woe;

For by my wrongs, and by my wrath!

To-morrow Areouski's breath,

(That fires yon heav'n with storms of death),

'Shall light us to the foe:

And we shall share, my Christian boy!

The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

XXXVI.

'But thee, my flow'r, whose breath was giv'n

By milder genii o'er the deep,

The spirits of the white man's heav'n

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 lov'd thee most:

She was the rainbow to thy sight!

Thy sun-thy heav'n-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-lov'd home?—

• The hand is gone that cropt its flowers:

'Unheard their clock repeats its hours!

'Cold is the hearth within their bow'rs!

And should we thither 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?

Ah! there in desolation cold,

The desert serpent dwells alone,

Where grass o'ergrows each mould'ring bone,

• And stones themselves to ruin grown,

'Like me, are death-like old.

'Then seek we not their camp-for thereThe silence dwells of my despair!'

XXXIX.

'But hark, the trump!-tomorrow thou In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:

Ev'n from the land of shadows now

'My father's awful ghost appears,
'Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
'He bids my soul for battle thirst——
'He bids me dry the last-the first-

'The only tears that ever burst

'From Outalissi's soul;

Because I may not stain with grief

'The death-song of an Indian chief.'