Page:Pocahontas and Other Poems (NY).pdf/183

182 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.