FUNERAL OF THE OSAGE WARRIOR.
A mighty form lay stretch'd and cold
Beside his last retreat,
The spear was in his mantle's fold,
The quiver at his feet;
Grave, hoary men with stifled moan
Moved on sedate and slow,
While woman's shrill, unheeded tone
Broke forth in lawless wo.
Strange sight!—amid that funeral train
A lofty steed stood nigh,
With arching neck and curling mane,
With bold, yet wondering eye.—
But when the wail grew wild and loud,
His fiery nostril spread,
As though he heard the war-whoop proud
And rush'd to carnage red.—
"Steed of the winds!—thy lord doth roam
Gay through the spirit's land,
Where no pale tyrants eye shall come
To frown on the happy band.
When o'er the night, like meteor streams
The lamp of their revels free,
His hunting spear in lightning gleams,
And he waits, he calls for thee.
He must not at the chase be late,
He, of the soul of fire,
Haste! Haste!"—the death-shot seals his fate,
With sharp and sudden ire.
One leap,—one groan,—and all was hush'd,—
He bow'd his noble head,
And free the deep, red streamlet gush'd
To lave his master's bed.
Sad groups to guard their chieftain's clay
The tumulus prepare,
While low a weeping mourner lay
With dark, dishevell'd hair.
And when the evening star is bright,
Full oft her widow'd cry,
Goes forth upon the stilly night,
"Why warrior,—didst thou die?"—