110
poems.
Their belts with many a gewgaw bound,
And hung with knives their waists surround;
And streaming in the sunny air,
With blood scarce dried, the white-man's hair!
Quick from the scene he turn'd to flee,
But found he was no longer free:
The Indian bore him to his tent,
Nor listen'd to his sad lament.
There through the long and dreary day
He wept the sunny hours away.
Ah, would that he had never stray'd
From the fair spot where first he play'd;
Ah, would, alas I that he could hear
His mother's voice fall on his ear!
But Odo wept himself to rest,—
'Twas the first time that he unhless'd
Had sought repose. At length he woke;
But tears again now freshly broke;
His blooming cheek with grief was pale,
And none did listen to his tale.
And hung with knives their waists surround;
And streaming in the sunny air,
With blood scarce dried, the white-man's hair!
Quick from the scene he turn'd to flee,
But found he was no longer free:
The Indian bore him to his tent,
Nor listen'd to his sad lament.
There through the long and dreary day
He wept the sunny hours away.
Ah, would that he had never stray'd
From the fair spot where first he play'd;
Ah, would, alas I that he could hear
His mother's voice fall on his ear!
But Odo wept himself to rest,—
'Twas the first time that he unhless'd
Had sought repose. At length he woke;
But tears again now freshly broke;
His blooming cheek with grief was pale,
And none did listen to his tale.
Within the tent upon the ground,
Where a bright fire-light shone around
Sat the dark Indian, while his wife
Drew forth the broad and glitt'ring knife,
And severed from the tent's long pole,
Where a bright fire-light shone around
Sat the dark Indian, while his wife
Drew forth the broad and glitt'ring knife,
And severed from the tent's long pole,
