Lo, where he stands upon yon towering peak

That echoes with the startled eagle’s shriek,

His scalp-tuft floating wildly to the gale

Which howls an answer to his mournful wail,

Leaning his arm upon an unbent bow,

He thus begins in accents sad and low:

“‘We must go! for already more near and more near

The tramp of the paleface falls thick on the ear—

Like the roar of the blast when the storm-spirit comes

In the clang of the trumps and the death-rolling drums.