Page:Poems Sigourney 1827.pdf/212

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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.