VI.

    "How shall I to myself alone, The weakness of my bosom¹ own？

    Why, mindful of my fame and pride, When my brave brethren had died； Why, with my friendly, ready knife, Drew I not forth² my useless life？

    Was it a coward fear of death, That bade me treasure up my breath？ Or had life yet some genial³ ray, That wooed me in its warmth to stay？

    Had earth yet one whose smile could stir, My spirit with deep love for her？

    Yes, though within me hope was dead, And wild Ambition's dreams were fled；

    Though o'er my blighted⁴ heart, Despair Desponded, love still nestled there； Love！ how the pale-faced scorner's lip Would sneer⁵, to hear me name that name； Yet was it deep within my soul A secret but consuming flame； Whose overruling mastership, Defied slow Reason's dull control！ And felt for one of that vile⁶ race, To whom my tribe had given place； Was nursed in silence and in shame！ Shame, for the weakness of a heart, Yet bleeding from th' oppressor's blow, Which could bestow⁷ its better part Upon the offspring of a foe⁸！ They, the mean delvers of the soil, The wielders of the felling axe,—— Because we will not stoop to toil⁹, Nor to its burdens bond our backs； Because we scorn Seduction's wiles¹⁰, Her lying words and forged smiles, They, the foul¹¹ slaves of lust¹² and gold, Say that our blood and hearts are cold.（） But ere the morrow's dawning light Has climbed yon eastern craggy height, One, whose fierce eye and haughty¹³ brow, Are lit with pride and pleasure now, Shall learn, at point of my true steel, How much the Red man's heart may feel,—— How fearlessly he strikes the foe, When love and vengeance¹⁴ prompt the blow！ Though scorned by him, I know an art Could stop the beatings of his heart, Ere his own lips could say, 'Be still！' A single arrow from my bow, Bathed in the poisonous manchenille,（） Would in an instant lay him low； So deadly is the icy chill, With which the life-blood it congeals¹⁵, The wounded warrior¹⁶ scarcely feels Its fatal touch ere he expire： But, when Revenge would glut¹⁷ his ire, He stops not with immediate¹⁸ death The current of his victim's breath；

    With gasp¹⁹, and intervening pause, The lifeblood from its source he draws, Marks, in the crimson²⁰ stream that flows, How near life verges²¹ to its close,—— And its last soul-exhaling groan²², To him is music's sweetest tone！ And he, whose fate it is to die, Ere Morning's banner flouts²³ the sky, The eye shall see, the arm shall know, That guides and deals th' avenging²⁴ blow； And ere his spirit goes to rest, Right well his scornful heart shall learn, How fiercely, in a savage²⁵ breast, The flames of love and hate may burn." He spake, and down the mountain's side, With quick, impatient step, he hied, Threading the forest's lonely gloom, A ruthless minister of doom²⁶.