III.

    And thus from varying year to year, The youthful chief has lingered here； Chief！——why is he so nobly named？

    How many warriors² at his call, By Arcouski's breath inflamed³, Would with him fight, and for him fall？

    Of all his father's warrior¹ throng⁴, Remains⁵ not one whose lip could now Rehearse with him the battle song, Whose hand could bend the hostile bow. And yet, no weak, complaining word, From his stern lip is ever heard；

    And his bright eye, so black and clear, Is never moistened by a tear；

    Of quiet mien⁶, and mournful mood, He lives, a stoic⁷ of the wood； Gliding⁸ about from place to place, With noiseless step, and steady pace, Haunting each fountain, glen, and grot, Like the lone⁹ Genius of the spot.