Bore a stern brow, a fierce unyielding soul.
His was the skill to wield the hunter’s bow,
Or the keen tomahawk. He trod the wood
To wring some trophy of barbarian strength;
To make its wide depths echo with the shriek
Of slaughtered foes. His name was feared and hated
Among the neighbouring tribes. The maid was proud
That one so stern and terrible as he
Should own her power—and though she loved him not,
She still would smile and listen when he told