  See on his mat—as if of yore, All life-like sits he here! With that same aspect which he wore When light to him was dear. But where the right hand's strength? and where The breath that loved to breathe, To the Great Spirit aloft in air, The peace-pipe's lusty wreath? And where the hawk-like eye, alas! That wont the deer pursue, Along the waves of rippling grass, Or fields that shone with dew? Are these the limber, bounding feet That swept the winter's snows? What stateliest stag so fast and fleet? Their speed outstripped the roe's! These arms, that then the steady bow Could supple from its pride, How stark and helpless hang they now Adown the stiffened side! Yet weal to him—at peace he stays Where never fall the snows; Where o'er the meadows springs the maize That mortal never sows. Where birds are blithe on every brake— Where forests teem with deer— Where glide the fish through every lake— One chase from year to year! With spirits now he feasts above; All left us—to revere The deeds we honor with our love, The dust we bury here. Here bring the last gift! loud and shrill Wail, death dirge for the brave! What pleased him most in life may still Give pleasure in the grave. We lay the ax beneath his head He swung when strength was strong— The bear on which his banquets fed— The way from earth is long! And here, new sharped, place the knife That severed from the clay, From which the ax had spoiled the life, The conquered scalp away! The paints that deck the dead bestow— Yes, place them in his hand— That red the kingly shade may glow Amid the spirit-land. SIR. E. L. BULWER. |
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