  Vengeance was once her nation’s lore and law: When the tired sentry stooped above the rill, Her long knife flashed, and hissed, and drank its fill; Dimly below her dripping wrist she saw, One wild hand, pale as death and weak as straw, Clutch at the ripple in the pool; while shrill Sprang through the dreaming hamlet on the hill, The war-cry of the triumphant Iroquois. And wrinkled like an apple kept till May, She weighs the interest-money in her palm, And, when the Agent calls her valiant name, Hears, like the war-whoops of her perished day, The lads playing snow-snake in the stinging cold.
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