XXXV.

And I could weep;'-th' Oneyda chief

His descant wildly thus began:

'But that I may not stain with grief

'The death-song of my father's son!

Or bow this head in woe;

For by my wrongs, and by my wrath!

To-morrow Areouski's breath,

(That fires yon heav'n with storms of death),

But thee, my flow'r, whose breath was giv'n

By milder genii o'er the deep,

Thy sun-thy heav'n-of lost delight!—

XXXVII.

'To-morrow let us do or die!

'But when the bolt of death is hurl'd,

'The hand is gone that cropt its flowers!

‹ Then seek we not their camp-for there—

My father's awful ghost appears;

•Amidst the clouds that round us roll,

He bids my soul or battle thirst

He bids me dry the last-the first

'The only tears that ever burst―

• From Outalissi's soul;

'Because I may not stain with grief

'The death-song of an Indian chief.'

L