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 O! Lethean spring thou'rt only found Within this ideal hunting ground.

Surely the great Hereafter cannot be more than this, Surely we'll see that country after Time's farewell kiss. Who would his lovely faith condole? Who envies not the Red-skin's soul,

Sailing into the cloud land, sailing into the sun, Into the crimson portals ajar when life is done? O! dear dead race, my spirit too Would fain sail westward unto you.