Page:Theatrical speaker (1).pdf/2



And I could weep;"—the Oneyda chief

His descant wildly thus begun;

But that I may not stain with grief

The death-song of my father's son!

Or bow his head in woe;

For, by my my [sic] wrongs and by my wrath;

To-morrow Areouski's breath,

That fires yon heaven with storms of death,

Shall light us to the foe:

And we shall share, my Christian boy,

The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy;

But thee, my flower, whose was given

By milder genii o'er the deed,

The spirit of the whiteman's heaven

Forbid not thee to weep,:—

Nor will the Christian host,

Nor will thy father's spirit grieve,

To see thee, on the battle's eve,

Lamenting, take a' mournful leave

Of her who loved thee most:

She was the rainbow to thy sight!

Thy sun—thy heaven—of lost delight!