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 They heave the stubborn trunk aside,
The firm roots from the earth divide,—
The rent beneath yawns dark and wide.
And there the fallen chief is laid,
In tasselled garb of skins arrayed,
And girded with his wampum-braid.
The silver cross he loved is pressed
Beneath the heavy arms, which rest
Upon his scarred and naked breast.
Tis done: the roots are backward sent,
The beechen-tree stands up unbent,
The Indian's fitting monument!
When of that sleeper's broken race
Their green and pleasant dwelling-place,
Which knew them once, retains no trace;
Oh, long may sunset's light be shed
As now upon that beech's head,
A green memorial of the dead!
There shall his fitting requiem be,
In northern winds, that, cold and free,
Howl nightly in that funeral tree.
To their wild wail the waves which break
Forever round that lonely lake
A solemn undertone shall make!
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