(3)
But ere the morrow's dawning light
Has climbed yon eastern craggy height,
One, whose fierce eye and haughty brow,
Are lit with pride and pleasure now,
Shall learn, at point of my true steel,
How much the Red man's heart may feel,--
How fearlessly he strikes the foe,
When love and vengeance prompt the blow!
Though scorned by him, I know an art
Could stop the beatings of his heart,
Ere his own lips could say, 'Be still!'
A single arrow from my bow,
Bathed in the poisonous manchenille,(4)
Would in an instant lay him low;
So deadly is the icy chill,
With which the life-blood it congeals,
The wounded warrior scarcely feels
Its fatal touch ere he expire:
But, when Revenge would glut his ire,
He stops not with immediate death
The current of his victim's breath;
With gasp, and intervening pause,
The lifeblood from its source he draws,
Marks, in the crimson stream that flows,
How near life verges to its close,--
And its last soul-exhaling groan,
To him is music's sweetest tone!
And he, whose fate it is to die,
Ere Morning's banner flouts the sky,
The eye shall see, the arm shall know,
That guides and deals th' avenging blow;
And ere his spirit goes to rest,
Right well his scornful heart shall learn,
How fiercely, in a savage breast,
The flames of love and hate may burn.
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