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LAST WORDS OF AN INDIAN CHIEF.
Near any white man's bones. Let not his hand
Touch my clay pillow, nor his hateful voice
Sing burial hymns for me. Rather than dwell
In Paradise with him, my soul would choose
Eternal darkness and the undying worm.
Ho! heed my words, or else my wandering shade
Shall haunt ye with its curse!"
And so he died,
That pagan chief; the last strong banner-staff
Of the poor Senecas. No more the flash
Of his wild eloquence shall fire their ranks
To mortal combat. His distorted brow,
And the stern grapple when he sank in death,
Sadly they grave upon their orphan hearts,
As to their rude homes in the forest glade
Mournful they turn'd.
