Still unabashed he stands, unmoved, erect,
His blanket draped, albeit not too clean,
About him with a Roman consul’s mien,
And in the white light of a throne his eye
Would meet, nor quail, the eye of majesty.
His own war-eagle to the sun that soared,
Gave back with eye undimmed its fiery glare,
And sported with the speaking lightnings where
The Thunder-Birds[1] along the tempest roared;
Or swept the plain, but saw no Indian slave