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"My chiefs! my chiefs! the old man comes, that in your halls was nurs'd, That follow'd you to many a fight, where flash'd your sabres first; That bore your children in his arms, your name upon his heart— Oh! must the music of that name with him from earth depart?

"It shall not be!—a thousand tongues, tho' human voice were still, With that high sound the living air triumphantly shall fill; The wind's free flight shall bear it on, as wandering seeds are sown, And the starry midnight whisper it, with a deep and thrilling tone.