FUNERAL OF MAZEEN,
��OF INDIANS.
��'Mir> the trodden turf is an open grave,
And a funeral train, where the wild flowers wave,
For a manly sleeper doth seek his bed
In the narrow house of the sacred dead :
Yet scantly the damp soil hath drank of the tear,
For the red-brow'd few are the weepers here.
They have lower 'd the prince to his resting-spot ; The white man hath pray'd, but they heed it not, For their abject thoughts 'mid those ashes grope, And quench 'd in their souls is the light of hope ; Know ye their pangs who turn away The vassal foot from their monarch's clay ?
With the dust of kings in this noteless shade, The last of a royal line is laid, In whose stormy veins that current roll'd Which curb'd the chief and the warrior bold ; Yet pride still burns in their humid clay, Though the pomp of the sceptre hath pass'd away.
�� �
