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Of all my nested warblers,—dost thou turn,
And pluck the wing that shelter'd thee? I would
That He who hurls the lightning!"——but the curse
Froze on his lip, and with a hideous groan
As if in combat with some giant-foe,
Who to his lion heart had found the way,
He wrestled and fell back, to rise no more.
—Then rose the sob of weeping, and the prayer
Of earnest faith. It was a fearful scene,—
Death, and young sorrow, and unearthly zeal,
Dividing that low mansion. But the space
Was brief for such companionship. The tramp,
And heavy tread of many hasting feet
Came echoing o'er the threshhold; for the throng
Who held their Sachem as a god, did shrink
To see him die. But now the deed was done,
And the stern Chief lay as the powerless babe,
They who would tremble at his awful glance,
And do his bidding with a spaniel's dread,
Now casting off their abject terror, stood
Closest beside him. From the weaker sex
Burst forth a tide of sympathy, to soothe
The orphan maid: for pity cannot quit
Her hold on woman, whatsoe'er her garb
Or lineament may be, howe'er the sun
Have burnt dark tints upon her, or the yoke
Of vassalage and scorn have bow'd her low,
Still doth her spirit at another's pain
Vibrate, as the swept lyre.—
                                   'Twas sad to see
Those hoary elders pacing one by one,
So slow and mournful from their fallen chief,