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     “This night the Vision-Spirit hath
Unrolled the scroll of fate before me;
     And ere the sunrise cometh, Death
Will wave his dusky pinion o'er me!
     Nay, start not—well I know thy faith—
Thy weapon now may keep its sheath;
     But, when the bodeful morning breaks,
And the green forest widely wakes
     Unto the roar of English thunder,
Then trusted brother, be it thine
     To burst upon the foeman's line,
And rend his serried strength asunder.
     Perchance thyself and yet a few
Of faithful ones may struggle through,
     And, rallying on the wooded plain,
Strike deep for vengeance once again,
     And offer up in pale-face blood
An offering to the Indian's God.”

A musket shot—a sharp, quick yell—
     And then the stifled groan of pain,
Told that another red man fell,—
     And blazed a sudden light again
Across that kingly brow and eye,
     Like lightning on a clouded sky,—
And a low growl, like that which thrills
     The hunter of the Eastern hills,
Burst through clenched teeth and rigid lip—
     And, when the great chief spoke again
His deep voice shook beneath its rein,
     As wrath and grief held fellowship.

“Brother I methought when as but now
     I pondered on my nation's wrong,
With sadness on his shadowy brow
     My father's spirit passed along!
He pointed to the far south-west,
     Where sunset's gold was growing dim,
And seemed to beckon me to him,
     And to the forests of the blest.—
My father loved the, white men, when
     They were but children, shelterless,
For his great spirit at distress
     Melted to woman's tenderness—
Nor was it given him to know
     That children whom he cherished then
Would rise at length, like armed men,
     To work is people's overthrow.
Yet thus it is;—the God before
     Whose awful shrine the pale ones bow
Hath frowned upon, and given o'er
     The red man to the stranger now!

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